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BLANCHETTE  AND  THE 
ESCAPE  •  TWO  PLAYS  BY 
BRIEUX  •  WITH  PREFACE 
BY  H.  L.  MENCKEN  •  TRANS- 
LATED FROM  THE  FRENCH 
BY  FREDERICK  EISEMANN 


JOHN  W.LUCE  &  COMPANY 
BOSTON  MCMXffl 


Copyright,  1913 
By  L.  E.  Bassett 


To, 


PREFACE 

BY  H.  L.  MENCKEN 


PREFACE 

"After  the  death  of  Ibsen,'*  says  George 
Bernard  Shaw,  in  his  preface  to  the  first 
English  translation  of  Brieux's  plays,  "Brieux 
confronted  Europe  as  the  most  important 
dramatist  west  of  Russia.  In  that  kind  of 
comedy  which  is  so  true  to  life  that  we  have 
to  call  it  tragi-comedy,  and  which  is  not  only 
an  entertainment  but  a  history  and  a  criticism 
of  contemporary  morals,  he  is  incomparably 
the  greatest  writer  France  has  produced  since 
Moliere." 

A  somewhat  extravagant  statement,  perhaps 
—  who,  indeed,  looks  for  restraint  and  nice- 
ness  in  a  Shavian  preface?  —  but  still  one 
with  a  certain  unmistakable  flavor  of  truth 
in  it.  All  the  acknowledged  giants  of  the 
French  drama  since  Moliere  have  been  giants 
of  dramaturgy  rather  than  giants  of  truth. 
Working  in  series  from  Beaumarchais  to  Sardou, 
with  Scribe  as  the  master  of  them  all,  they 
have  brought  the  form  of  the  stage  play  very 
close  to  perfection,  but  they  have  not  added 
much  that  is  of  consequence  to  its  content. 
Even  the  younger  Dumas,  for  all  his  famous 
revolt     against     the     snarled     conventions     of 


Brieux 

classicism  and  romanticism,  did  no  more  than 
set  up  a  new  convention  in  place  of  the  old 
ones.  The  drama  of  ideas  that  he  preached 
quickly  became,  in  the  hands  of  Augier,  Coppee 
and  Feuillet,  a  drama  of  one  idea  only.  Its 
sole  problem  was  that  of  the  woman  taken  in 
adultery.  In  some  of  these  variations  upon 
*'La  Dame  aux  Camelias,"  the  successors  to 
Marguerite  Gautier  were  defended  and  in 
some  they  were  excoriated,  in  some  they  were 
married  and  in  some  they  were  not,  but  the 
struggle  depicted  in  every  one  was  that  between 
such  a  woman  and  the  moral  forces  of  society. 
The  result  was  an  inelastic  and  monotonous 
type  of  play,  with  the  so-called  drama  of  the 
triangle  as  its  highest  development.  After  a 
while,  indeed,  the  word  "eternal"  came  to 
be  inserted  before  "triangle,"  as  if  this  single 
situation  were  immutable  and  inevitable,  and 
the  only  proper  concern  of  a  serious  dramatist. 
Between  the  early  60's  and  the  early  90's, 
France  produced  scarcely  half  a  dozen  first- 
rate  plays  in  which  adultery  was  not  the 
leading  motive.  Even  Brieux,  as  we  shall 
see,  was  forced  to  yield  something  to  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  when  he  began. 

There  were  plenty  of  Frenchmen,   of  course, 
who  saw  that  this  tedious  sounding  of  one  note 

ii 


Brieux 

was  not  realism  in  any  true  sense,  despite 
its  obvious  superiority  to  the  childish  roman- 
ticism that  had  gone  before  it.  One  of  them 
was  fimile  Zola,  and  throughout  the  70's  he 
maintained  a  vigorous  war  for  what  he  called 
naturalism  on  the  stage  —  that  is,  for  an 
accurate  and  unsentimental  representation  of 
human  life  as  it  really  was,  with  the  stress 
laid  unequally  upon  no  one  of  its  elements. 
But  Zola,  though  a  novelist  of  the  first  genius, 
had  very  little  skill  at  playmaking,  and  the 
failure  of  his  experiments  worked  serious 
damage  to  his  theory.  By  one  of  the  curious 
coincidences  of  literary  history,  the  collapse 
of  his  propaganda  came  at  the  very  moment 
another  and  far  greater  dramatist  was  con- 
verted to  it.  The  convert  was  Henrik  Ibsen, 
the  Norwegian,  whose  first  social  drama,  "A 
Doll's  House,"  was  given  to  the  world  in  the 
last  days  of  1879.  Ibsen  was  not  long  in 
conquering  Germany  and  his  native  Scan- 
dinavia, but  in  France,  as  in  England  and  the 
United  States,  he  made  so  little  impression 
that  he  remained  almost  unknown  for  ten 
years.  By  the  time  "A  Doll's  House"  got  to 
Paris,  indeed,  a  blow  for  the  new  naturalism 
had  been  already  struck  by  one  of  Zola's 
countrymen.     This    rebel    was    Eugene    Brieux. 

iii 


Brieux 

His  "Blanchette"  was  done  at  the  Thedtre 
Libre  on  February  2,  1892.  It  was  not  until 
more  than  two  years  later  —  to  be  exact, 
on  April  20,  1894,  — that  "A  Doll's  House" 
was  presented  at  the  Vaudeville  by  Mme. 
Rejane. 

Just  how  much  Brieux  owes  to  Zola  and  to 
Ibsen  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  with  cer- 
tainty, for  his  personal  reticence  is  such  that 
he  has  told  us  very  little  about  his  intellectual 
history,  and  the  only  forerunner  he  has  openly 
praised  is  Augier.  But  it  must  be  plain  that 
he  felt  the  influence  of  both  men  during  his 
formative  period,  if  only  indirectly,  for  in  the 
earliest  of  his  serious  plays  one  finds  both  the 
laborious  accuracy  of  the  one  and  the  pene- 
trating iconoclasm  of  the  other.  "Blanchette," 
in  truth,  might  pass  muster  as  an  experi- 
mental work  by  either  of  them.  The  picture  of 
the  Rousset  home  in  the  first  and  second  acts 
is  thoroughly  Zolaesque  in  its  piling  up  of  small 
details,  and  the  attack  upon  popular  education 
is  made  by  the  elaborate  reductio  ad  absurdum 
which  Ibsen  employed  so  often  and  so  devas- 
tatingly.  And  in  the  plays  following,  we  find 
Brieux  making  a  more  and  more  effective  use 
of  the  same  methods  and  materials.  Bit  by  bit 
he  moves  away  from  the  orthodox  content  and 

iv 


Brieux 

structure  of  the  French  drama  of  his  time.  On 
the  one  hand,  he  rejects  all  the  old  conventions 
of  form,  and  on  the  other  hand  he  works  a 
revolution  in  dramatic  purpose.  In  both  direc- 
tions, he  has  gone  further  than  any  of  his 
countrymen,  and  in  the  case  of  the  former,  in- 
deed, further  than  any  other  living  dramatist, 
save  perhaps  Shaw  and  Gorky.  Some  of  his  later 
plays,  in  a  current  phrase,  are  veritable  "slices  of 
life,"  without  either  formal  beginning  or  formal 
ending.  He  does  not  bring  his  curtain  down 
upon  an  affecting  reconciliation,  nor  even  upon 
a  thrilling  tragedy;  he  merely  brings  it  down. 
But  all  the  while,  of  course,  he  remains  too 
much  the  Frenchman  ever  to  lose  his  dra- 
matic sense  entirely,  and  so  even  his  most  horta- 
tory plays  —  for  example,  "Maternite"  and 
"Le  Berceau" — are  occasionally  enlivened  by 
scenes  which  a  Sardou  or  a  Bernstein  might 
envy.  In  the  midst  of  his  rebellion  against 
empty  artificiality  he  has  managed  to  learn  some- 
thing from  his  opponents,  and  his  later  works, 
particularly  "La  Foi,"  "Les  Hannetons"  and 
the  second  version  of  "  Maternite,"  reveal  a 
very  marked  improvement  in  craftsmanship. 
You  will  get  some  measure  of  this  progress 
in  technical  skill  by  putting  the  second  of  the 
plays   in   the   present   volume   beside   the   first, 

V 


Brieux 

and  remembering  that  four  years  separate 
them.  "Blanchette,"  for  all  its  approval  by 
critics  and  public,  is  still  full  of  amateurish 
blemishes,  but  in  "The  Escape"  the  author 
keeps  a  firm  grip  upon  his  material. 

These  plays  have  been  chosen  as  representa- 
tive of  Brieux's  theatre  because  each  marks 
a  high  point  in  his  progress.  It  was  the  pro- 
duction of  "Blanchette"  by  Andre  Antoine,  in 
1892,  that  brought  Brieux  his  first  success  and 
lifted  him  to  a  definite  position  among  con- 
temporary French  playwrights:  until  "Les 
A  varies"  overshadowed  it,  indeed,  he  was 
chiefly  known  to  the  boulevards  as  Vauteur  de 
"Blanchette:'  And  it  was  "The  Escape" 
("  L'Evasion ")  that  opened  the  doors  of  the 
Theatre  Frangaise  to  him,  and  won  the  honor 
of  being  crowned  by  the  Academy,  and  paved 
the  way  for  his  election  to  the  Forty  fourteen 
years  later.  Both  reveal  very  fairly  his  peculiar 
talents  and  his  characteristic  weaknesses.  In 
each  he  depicts  a  small  group  of  persons  with 
Meissonier-like  painstaking  and  realism,  and 
in  each  he  launches  his  javeline  against  a  sham. 
But  in  each  he  is  so  deadly  in  earnest  that  he 
hurts  his  case  by  over-statement.  After  all, 
is  there  any  reason  to  believe  that  Blanchette 
Rousset  would  not  have  obtained  her  teacher's 

vi 


Brieux 

post  in  six  months  more?  And  is  it  fair  to 
charge  against  the  school  system  the  fact  that 
she  is  pursued  by  men  wherever  she  goes  to 
merchant  her  learning  —  and  actually  driven, 
in  the  original  version  of  the  play,  to  prostitu- 
tion? Likewise,  in  "The  Escape,"  isn't  it 
true  that  Brieux's  attack  upon  medical  fads 
is  hindered  rather  than  helped  by  the  fact  that 
he  makes  his  Dr.  Bertry  less  a  faddist  than  a 
downright  charlatan?  So  in  many  of  the  later 
plays,  the  mark  is  overshot,  the  untypical  is 
mistaken  for  the  typical,  the  argument  finds 
its  answer  in  its  unsound  premises.  I  need 
cite  only  "Suzette,"  "Menages  d' Artistes," 
"La  Berceau"  and  "Les  Avaries."  In  each 
of  them  Brieux  states  a  case  which,  in  part  at 
least,    misrepresents   the   thing   he   attacks. 

An  even  more  serious  charge  against  him 
is  that  of  Philistinism:  the  standpoint  from 
which  he  argues  is  not  so  much  that  of  the 
constructive  revolutionist  as  that  of  the  im- 
movable bourgeoisie.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  perhaps,  that  a  man  of  his  humble  origin 
and  narrow  youthful  associations  should  see 
life  from  that  angle,  but  in  more  than  one  of 
his  plays  he  reveals  a  complete  lack  of  under- 
standing of  his  butts  as  well  as  a  complete 
lack  of  sympathy  with  them.  This  is  notice- 
vii 


Brieux 

able  in  the  very  first  of  his  serious  plays, 
"Menages  d' Artists,"  in  which  his  onslaught, 
upon  the  so-called  symbolist  movement  in 
French  poetry  is  quite  as  notable  for  its  mis- 
conceptions as  for  its  ferocity.  It  is  noticeable 
again  in  "The  Escape,"  where  his  attack 
upon  the  theory  of  inherited  traits  seems  to 
be  unaccompanied  by  any  suspicion  that  there 
is,  after  all,  a  lot  of  support  for  it  in  demon- 
strable facts.  And  in  some  of  his  later 
dramas  his  argument  against  a  given  idea  is 
no  more  than  an  argument  for  a  platitude 
standing  opposed  to  it.  In  no  less  than  three 
plays,  for  example,  he  preaches  the  pious 
doctrine  that  a  child  constitutes  an  unbreakable 
bond  between  husband  and  wife,  and  that  it  is 
their  prime  duty  to  sacrifice  all  personal  in- 
clination to  its  welfare  —  a  doctrine  assaulted 
with  murderous  fury  by  August  Strindberg. 
Here,  indeed,  Brieux  takes  his  definite  departure 
from  Ibsen,  and  from  all  the  acknowledged 
followers  of  Ibsen.  His  propaganda  is  not  for 
the  abandonment  of  an  outworn  morality,  but 
for  its  resuscitation  and  reaffirmation.  He  has 
no  Nietzschean  doubts  about  the  impeccability 
of  the  family,  the  value  of  the  simple  and 
lowly  virtues,  the  moral  order  of  the  world. 
Even  when  he  is  most  furiously  assailing  exist- 
viii 


Brieux 

ing  institutions,  it  is  always  evident  that  his 
wrath  is  directed,  not  at  their  ancient  essentials, 
but  at  their  modern  embellishments.  The  brief 
that  he  holds  is  for  respectability,  for  "sound" 
views,  for  "right-thinking**  men  —  in  M.  de 
Segur's  stealthily  ironic  phrase,  for  "decent 
folk."  He  is  not  the  sophisticated  and  cynical 
Frenchman  of  the  boulevards  and  Anglo- 
Saxon  tradition,  but  the  stolid  and  God-fearing 
man  of  the  people  —  der  Bauer  im  Frock. 

But  perhaps  the  best  way  to  get  to  an  under- 
standing of  the  growth  and  nature  of  Brieux's 
ideas  is  to  examine  his  plays  seriatim  —  leaving 
out  of  consideration,  for  the  sake  of  brevity, 
the  two  that  are  given  here  and  the  three 
printed  under  the  imprimatur  of  George 
Bernard  Shaw.  They  reveal,  with  two  excep- 
tions, a  serious  moral  purpose,  and  after 
"  Blanchette,"  a  rapidly  increasing  mastery 
over  the  materials  of  the  theatre.  Whatever 
one  may  say  about  them,  there  is  certainly 
no  lack  of  artistic  courage  in  them.  Brieux 
discusses  the  most  grave  —  and,  inferentially, 
the  most  dull  —  of  human  problems  with  un- 
failing address  and  plausibility,  and  even  when 
he  himself  seems  to  be  puzzled  by  them,  as 
in  "Maternite,"  for  example,  he  is  yet  ex- 
tremely    interesting.     Not     many     French     in- 

ix 


Brieux 

stitutions,  whether  social  or  political,  have 
escaped  his  sardonic  inspection.  In  "Les  Bien- 
faiteurs"  he  is  on  the  trail  of  fashionable  charity; 
in  "Resultat  des  Courses"  he  is  preaching 
thunderously  against  betting;  in  "L'Engrenage" 
he  is  exposing  both  the  wiles  of  politicians  and 
the  credulity  of  their  dupes;  in  "Les  Rem- 
plagantes"  he  is  picturing  the  horrors  of  wet- 
nursing;  in  "Les  Hannetons"  he  is  directing 
a  fire  of  satire  at  the  foes  of  marriage;  in  "La 
Frangaise"  he  is  defending  his  countrywomen  — 
i.e.,  his  bourgeois  countrywomen  —  against  the 
libellous  misrepresentations  of  the  boulevard 
dramatists;  in  "La  Robe  Rouge"  he  is  bringing 
a  terrible  incitement  against  the  French  judicial 
system.  But  whether  his  method  be  that  of 
the  satirist,  as  in  "Les  Hannetons"  and  "Les 
Bienfaiteurs,"  or  that  of  the  grim  and  unpity- 
ing  social  vivisectionist,  as  in  "Resultat  des 
Courses"  and  "Les  Avaries,"  he  always  con- 
trives to  be  on  the  respectable  side  of  the 
question,  and  he  always  keeps  the  fact  in 
mind  that  a  stage  play,  to  hold  an  audience, 
must  have  action  in  it  —  that  the  doctrine  it 
lays  down  must  be  presented  in  terms  of  a 
conflict.  Brieux  is  a  million  miles  from  Scribe 
and  the  well-made  play,  despite  his  acknowl- 
edgments   to    Augier,    but    he    never    tries    to 

X 


Brieux 

make    the    drama    static    instead    of    dynamic, 
as  Shaw  does  in  "Married." 

The  first  of  Brieux's  plays  to  reach  the  stage 
was  "Bernard  Palissy,"  a  one-acter  in  verse, 
written  in  collaboration  with  Gaston  Salandri 
in  1879,  when  the  author  was  barely  twenty- 
one.  The  central  character,  of  course,  is 
that  Bernard  Palissy  (1509-1589)  who  in- 
vented the  art  of  enamelling  pottery,  and 
the  scene  is  his  house  at  Saintes.  He  has 
been  reduced  to  great  poverty  by  his  costly 
experiments,  and  his  wife  Genevieve  is  demand- 
ing that  he  abandon  them  and  go  back  to  his 
profitable  glass-painting.  Etienne  Gautier,  the 
fiance  of  his  daughter,  Jeanne,  adds  pressure 
to  this  connubial  persuasion,  but  Jeanne  her- 
self stands  by  him.  Jeanne,  indeed,  is  willing 
to  sacrifice  her  love  to  her  father's  dream,  but 
a  kind  fate  makes  this  unnecessary.  A  terrific 
explosion  is  heard  in  the  workshop.  Palissy 
rushes  off  in  despair,  but  a  moment  later 
returns  in  triumph.  The  secret  of  the  enamel 
has  been  found!  "Bernard  Palissy"  had  its 
first  and  only  performance  at  the  Thedtre 
Cluny  on  December  21,  1879.  It  has  never 
been  translated  into  English. 

"Le  Bureau  des   Divorces,"   which   followed, 
was  also  written  in  collaboration  with  Salandri. 

xi 


Brieux 

It  was  published  in  1880,  but  has  never  reached 
the  stage.  P.  V.  Thomas,  in  his  monograph 
on  Brieux,  dismisses  it  as  a  cheap  farce,  "thin, 
stale  and  not  amusing,"  but  points  out  that 
its  attack  upon  the  French  divorce  law  shows 
the  early  bent  of  Brieux's  mind.  It  was 
followed  by  an  unproductive  interval  of  nearly 
ten  years,  broken  at  last  by  "Menages 
d' Artistes"  in  1890.  Probably  preceding  the 
latter  in  date  of  composition,  but  reaching  the 
stage  four  days  later,  came  "La  Fille  de 
Durame,"  a  melodrama  of  revolutionary  days, 
with  the  usual  outfit  of  brigands,  spies  and 
gendarmes.  It  was  written  for  a  Rouen  audi- 
ence and  had  its  first  performance  at  the 
Thedtre  Frangais  in  that  city  on  March  25, 
1890.  It  bears  no  sort  of  relation  to  the  rest 
of  Brieux's  work. 

"Menages  d'Artistes"  (1890)  is  important 
as  the  play  which  brought  Brieux  to  the  at- 
tention of  Andre  Antoine  and  gave  him  his 
first  serious  hearing  in  Paris.  It  is  a  bitter, 
and  not  always  convincing  satire  upon  the  art 
pour  Vart  movement  of  the  80's,  with  the 
symbolist  poets  as  its  targets.  Jacques  Ter- 
vaux,  a  ridiculous  member  of  that  brotherhood, 
is  married  to  a  simple  girl  who  believes  in 
his  loud  claims  to  genius.  Even  when  he 
xii 


Brieux 

launches  into  an  undisguised  affair  with  Emma 
Verner,  a  wealthy  dilettante,  poor  Mme.  Ter- 
vaux  is  unsuspecting.  Not  so,  however,  her 
shrewd  old  mother,  who  sees  through  this 
coalescence  of  soul  mates  at  once,  and  presently 
turns  Emma  out  of  the  house.  Jacques  fol- 
lows, and  the  two  set  up  a  pretentious  literary 
journal.  But  it  suspends  publication  after  a 
few  numbers  and  Emma  goes  off  with  another 
man.  Bankrupt  in  art  and  pocketbook,  Jacques 
then  commits  suicide  —  a  tragic  ending  for  a 
somewhat  rough  farce.  The  piece  has  its 
moments,  but  in  general  its  satire  is  hope- 
lessly ignorant  and  Philistine.  What  it  offers, 
indeed,  is  not  an  incisive  criticism  qf  the 
symbolists,  but  merely  an  ill-natured  lampoon 
upon  them. 

Two  years  later  came  "Blanchette"  (Theatre 
Libre,  February  2,  1892),  and  seven  months 
afterward  "M.  de  Reboval,"  or,  as  it  was 
first  called,  **M.  le  Senateur"  (Odeon,  Septem- 
ber 15) .  It  is  in  this  piece  that  we  first  find 
Brieux  voicing  his  eloquent  argument  for  the 
homely  virtues,  the  respectable  point  of  view. 
Its  intrigue  is  very  simple  and  not  at  all 
original.  M.  de  Reboval,  a  rich  and  powerful 
Senator,  maintains  two  establishments  and  has 
two  children,  the  one  legitimate  and  the  other 

xiii 


Brieux 

by  a  mistress.  All  goes  well  enough  so  long 
as  the  children  are  young,  but  when  they 
grow  up  they  meet  and  fall  in  love,  and 
Reboval  has  to  tell  them  the  truth.  They 
turn  upon  him  and  favor  him  with  virtuous 
denunciations  in  Brieux's  best  manner,  and 
at  the  end  he  acknowledges  the  viciousness 
of  his  life  and  begs  for  pardon.  Mr.  Thomas 
professes  to  regard  the  play  as  an  attack  on 
the  bourgeois,  but  in  reality  its  moral  is  one 
that  all  honest  bourgeois  must  approve.  It 
pleads  for  lawful  monogamy  in  a  serious  tone 
quite  as  plainly  as  "Les  Hannetons"  pleads 
for  it  in  tones  of  raillery. 

"La  Couvee"  (1893)  shows  Brieux's  first 
interest  in  a  theme  which  was  later  to  engage 
him  in  "Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont" 
and  other  plays:  to  wit,  the  evil  worked  by 
parents  who  seek  to  determine  the  whole 
future  of  their  children.  It  is,  however,  in  a 
lighter  vein  than  its  successors,  and  is  given 
distinction  by  a  very  amusing  clash  between 
the  mothers  of  the  young  folk.  This  scene 
was  afterward  turned  into  a  one-acter  under 
the  title  of  "L'Ecole  des  Belles-Meres,"  an 
English  version  of  which  was  printed  in  the 
Smart  Set  during  the  summer  of  1913.  "La 
Couvee,"  which  is  in  three  acts,  was  first 
xiv 


Brieux 

played  by  an  amateur  dramatic  club  at  Rouen 
in  1893.  Ten  years  later,  on  July  9,  1903, 
it  was  presented  in  Paris,  again  under  private 
auspices.  "L'Ecole  des  Belles-Meres"  was 
done  at  the  Gymnase  on  March  25,  1898. 

"L'Engrenage,"  which  followed  "La  Couvee" 
in  1894,  is  a  three-act  comedy  of  politics,  and 
its  two  aims  seem  to  be  to  expose  the  bribery 
which  flourishes  in  France  quite  as  balefuUy 
as  in  America,  and  to  satirize  the  fickleness 
of  a  politician's  following.  Remoussin,  an 
honest  provincial,  is  forced  into  standing  for 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies  by  his  ambitious 
wife  and  daughter,  and  is  elected  after  an 
exciting  campaign.  Before  long  he  is  beset 
by  lobbyists  for  a  tunnel  scheme,  and  one  of 
them,  a  rascal  named  Morin,  succeeds  in 
inveigling  him  into  taking  25,000  francs, 
not  as  a  personal  bribe,  but  as  "a  contribu- 
tion to  the  charities  of  his  district."  The 
transaction  becomes  public  and  Remoussin 
throws  himself  upon  the  mercy  of  his  constit- 
uents, pleading  his  lack  of  private  profit  and 
his  good  intent.  What  is  more,  he  pays  over 
the  25,000  francs  to  the  Attorney- General. 
But  the  voters  of  the  district  denounce  him 
as  a  thief,  the  while  they  give  cheers  for  the 
less  honest  and  more  crafty  Morin.     The  play 

XV 


Brieux 

had  its  first  performance  at  the  Thedtre  de  la 
Comedie  Parisienne  on  May  16,  1894,  but 
was  moved  to  the  Theatre  des  Nouveautes 
on  June  4  following. 

"Les  Bienfaiteurs,"  which  came  after  it,  is 
a  satire  upon  organized  charity,  showing  on 
the  one  hand  the  pitiful  insincerity  of  those 
who  manage  it,  and  on  the  other  hand  the 
lack  of  gratitude  in  those  who  benefit  by  it. 
The  play  is  in  fpur  acts  and  had  its  first 
performance  at  the  Theatre  de  la  Porte  St. 
Martin  on  October  22,  1896.  It  was  followed 
on  December  7  of  the  same  year  by 
"L'Evasion"  ("The  Escape"),  which  saw  the 
light  at  the  Thedtre  Frangaise,  and  has  re- 
mained in  the  repertoire  of  that  house  ever 
since.  On  October  8,  1897,  came  "Les  Trois 
Filles  de  M.  Dupont"  (Gymnase),  a  return, 
in  serious  mood,  to  the  theme  of  "La  Couvee." 
The  play  is  printed  in  Shaw's  volume  of  Brieux 
translations.  Its  successor  was  "Resultat  des 
Courses" — the  cry  of  Paris  newsboys  with 
racing  extras,  —  which  was  done  at  the  Antoine 
on  December  9,  1898.  Here  we  see  how  Arsene 
Chantaud,.  an  honest  workingman,  is  ruined 
by  a  chance  success  at  the  races.  Once  he  has 
fingered  unearned  money,  the  gambling  fever 
has  him  in  its  clutches,  and  he  proceeds  from 
xvi 


Brieux 

idleness  to  actual  theft.  In  the  end  he  is 
arrested  for  vagrancy.  Brieux  entered  a  Paris 
factory  to  get  atmosphere  and  color  fpr  this 
piece,  but  the  workmen  quickly  penetrated 
his  disguise.  It  is  in  his  most  earnest  manner. 
"Le  Berceau,"  which  had  its  first  perform- 
ance at  the  Theatre  Frangaise  on  December 
19,  1898,  ten  days  after  "Resultat  des  Courses," 
is  the  first  of  three  plays  dealing  with  a  new 
"eternal  triangle"  —  the  husband,  the  wife  and 
the  child.  Raymond  Chantrel  and  his  wife 
have  been  divorced,  and  Mme.  Chantrel  has 
been  married  again  and  is  now  Mme.  de 
Girieu.  The  child  of  the  first  union,  a  boy 
called  Julien,  has  been  awarded  to  the  mother 
by  the  court.  One  day  he  falls  desperately 
ill  at  the  home  of  her  parents,  and  his  mother 
and  father  are  brought  together  at  his  bedside. 
They  pass  days  and  nights  of  anxiety  there,  and 
gradually  their  old  love  awakens.  But  they 
determine  to  stand  firmly  against  it  in  justice 
to  Girieu  —  and  then  the  dramatist  solves  a 
knotty  problem  by  catastrophe.  That  is  to 
say,  he  has  Chantrel  and  Girieu  meet  in  physical 
combat  and  go  over  a  precipice  together.  A 
splendid  scene  of  the  theatre,  but  scarcely  a 
logical  resolution  of  the  situation.  The  signifi- 
cance of  the  play,  lies  in  its  attack  upon 
xvii 


Brieux 

divorce.  Its  theme  appears  again,  though 
with  variations,  in  "La  Deserteuse"  and 
"Suzette." 

After  "Le  Berceau"  came  "La  Robe  Rouge" 
(TheMre  du  Vaudeville,  March  15,  1900; 
Theatre  Frangaise,  September  23,  1909) ,  per- 
haps the  most  effective  dramatically  of  all 
Brieux's  plays.  It  is  a  devastating  attack 
upon  the  administration  of  justice  in  the 
French  courts,  and  no  doubt  had  its  inspiration 
in  the  Dreyfus  case.  Mouzon,  a  provincial 
magistrate,  smarting  under  newspaper  criticism 
for  his  failure  to  apprehend  the  perpetrator 
of  a  murder  and  eager  to  attract  the  favorable 
notice  of  his  superiors,  fixes  upon  an  ignorant 
peasant  named  Etchepare  as  the  culprit,  and 
then  proceeds,  by  shameless  bullying,  to  manu- 
facture enough  evidence  to  convict.  Among 
other  things,  he  extorts  from  Etchepare's 
wife  the  story  of  a  disgraceful  episode  before 
her  marriage  —  an  episode  hitherto  unknown 
to  Etchepare  himself.  After  a  long  trial,  the 
man  is  finally  acquitted,  but  his  home  is 
destroyed  and  he  departs  for  America.  Then 
Yanetta,  the  wife,  driven  to  distraction,  seizes 
a  paper-knife  on  Mouzon's  desk  and  plunges 
it  into  his  heart.  The  role  of  Mouzon  af- 
forded great  opportunities  to  the  actor,  Hugue- 
xviii 


Brieux 

net,  and  his  performance  helped  the  piece 
to  success.  Brieux  withdrew  it  from  the 
repertoire  of  the  Theatre  Frangaise  when 
Huguenet  left  the  company,  in  July,  1911. 
The  play  was  done  in  London  as  "The  Arm  of 
the  Law"  by  Arthur  Bourchier. 

"La  Robe  Rouge"  was  followed  by  "Les 
Remplagantes "  (Antoine,  February  15,  1901), 
an  attempt  to  maintain  the  somewhat  obvious 
thesis  that  the  custom  of  putting  babies  out 
to  nurse  is  injurious  to  the  child  itself  and 
demoralizing  to  both  the  mother  and  the  wet- 
nurse.  Lazarette  Planchot,  a  peasant  woman, 
goes  up  to  Paris  to  nurse  the  baby  of  Mme. 
Denisart,  a  wealthy  society  woman,  leaving 
her  own  offspring  to  the  tender  mercies  of  her 
drunken  husband  and  her  avaricious  father- 
in-law.  One  day  a  telegram  comes  from  her 
home,  telling  her  that  her  baby  is  very  ill, 
but  Mme.  Denisart  is  expecting  guests  and  so 
conveniently  forgets  to  hand  it  to  her.  Next 
day,  however,  she  learns  its  contents  and  at 
once  departs  for  her  home.  There  she  finds 
that  her  husband  is  throwing  away  her  earn- 
ings in  a  wine-shop  and  carrying  on  an  affair 
with  another  woman.  She  puts  this  other 
woman    to    flight,    brings    her    husband    home. 


XIX 


Brieux 

and  throws  herself  into  a  battle  for  her  baby's 
life.     The  infant  Denisart  is  forgotten. 

"Les  Avaries"  is  next  in  the  Brieux  canon. 
It  was  written  in  1901  and  put  into  rehearsal 
at  the  Theatre  Antoine  in  the  autumn  of  that 
year,  but  the  censor  forbade  its  performance, 
and  it  did  not  actually  reach  the  stage  in 
Paris  until  February  23,  1905.  But  mean- 
while Brieux  had  read  it  to  several  private 
audiences  and  it  had  been  played  at  Liege 
and  Brussels,  and,  if  I  do  not  err,  in  Switzer- 
land also.  John  Pollock's  English  translation 
was  published  by  Shaw  in  1910,  and  on  March 
14,  1913,  it  was  given  a  private  matinee  per- 
formance at  the  Fulton  Theatre  in  New  York, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Medical  Review 
of  Reviews.  There  was  some  disposition  on 
the  part  of  professional  Puritans  to  object  to 
public  performances,  but  a  number  of  clerical 
uplifters  came  gallantly  to  the  rescue,  and  the 
play  was  soon  afterward  openly  presented. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  New  York  run,  the 
company  proceeded  to  a  tour,  and  before  the 
end  of  the  year  "Damaged  Goods"  had  been 
set  before  the  theatre-goers  of  two  dozen 
cities.  Its  presentation  was  the  signal  for  an 
avalanche  of  so-called  "sex"  plays,  but  the 
majority  of  them  were  so  plainly   meretricious 

XX 


Brieux 

that  the  police  finally  interfered,  and  several 
of  the  worst  were  either  disinfected  or  wholly 
prohibited. 

A  year  after  "Les  Avaries"  Brieux  wrote 
"La  Petite  Amie"  (Thedtre  Frangaise,  May 
3,  1902),  a  return  to  the  theme  of  "Les  Trois 
Filles  de  M.  Dupont,"  this  time  with  a  tragic 
ending.  M.  Logerais,  proprietor  of  a  large 
dressmaking  establishment,  is  bent  upon  marry- 
ing his  son  Andre  to  a  rich  girl,  but  Andre 
has  fallen  in  love  with  Marguerite,  one  of  his 
father's  shop-girls.  In  an  American  play  the 
easy  solution  would  be  an  elopement,  but  by 
the  French  marriage  law  Andre  cannot  marry 
without  his  father's  consent  until  he  is  twenty- 
five.  It  is  too  long  for  the  lovers  to  wait, 
and  so  they  dispense  with  the  knot.  When 
Marguerite  finds  that  she  is  about  to  become 
a  mother  they  throw  themselves  into  the 
Seine.  After  "La  Petite  Amie"  came  "Mater- 
nite,"  and  as  the  Shaw  translation  shows, 
Brieux  wrote  two  endings  for  it,  the  second 
being  much  superior  to  the  first.  Its  successor 
was  "La  Deserteuse"  (Odeon,  October  15, 
1904),  in  which  Brieux  had  the  aid  of  Jean 
Sigaux.  Here  we  have  another  consideration 
of  the  effect  of  divorce  upon  the  children. 
Forjot,  the  father,  remarries  after  his  wife 
xxi 


Brieux 

rung  ofiF  with  a  musician,  and  his  daughter 
Pascaline  is  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  her 
mother's  sinning.  Years  later  the  latter  returns 
to  the  scene  and  tries  to  win  Pascaline's  love. 
Forjot  then  tells  the-  whole  story,  and  the 
broken-hearted  Pascaline  turns  her  back  on 
her  mother. 

There  followed  "L' Armature"  (Vaudeville, 
April  19,  1905),  an  unimportant  dramatiza- 
tion of  a  novel  by  Paul  Hervieu,  a  fellow 
dramatist.  After  it  came  "Les  Hannetons'* 
( Rennaissance,  February  3,  1906),  which  has 
been  done  into  English  and  presented  in  the 
United  States  by  Laurence  Irving,  first  as 
"The  Incubus"  (Hackett  Theatre,  New  York, 
April  27,  1909)  and  later  as  "The  Affinity" 
(Comedy  Theatre,  January  4,  1910).  It  deals 
amusingly  with  the  adventures  of  Pierre  Cotrel, 
an  "advanced"  thinker,  who  shows  distrust 
of  the  tyrannies  and  responsibilities  of  marriage 
by  setting  up  unofficial  housekeeping  with  one 
Charlotte,  a  simple-minded  working-girl.  But, 
alas  for  poor  Pierre,  he  quickly  finds  that  a 
"free"  union  is  quite  as  lacking  in  actual 
freedom  as  a  marriage  with  bell  and  book. 
Charlotte  henpecks  him,  is  unfaithful  to  him, 
and  finally  runs  away  from  him.  He  then 
determines  to  depart  from  the  scene  of  their 
xxii 


Brieux 

experiment  himself,  and  gets  together  his  small 
savings  —  200  francs  —  for  the  purpose.  But 
just  as  he  is  about  to  go,  Charlotte  is  carried 
up  the  stairs.  She  has  tried  to  commit  suicide 
by  jumping  into  the  Seine,  and  Pierre,  as  in 
duty  bound,  pays  the  200  francs  to  her  rescuer! 
A  grimly  ironical  little  comedy,  well  voicing 
Brieux's  Philistine  distrust  of  the  revolution- 
aries who  propose  to  make  over  the  funda- 
mental institutions  of  Christian  society. 

"La  Frangaise,"  which  followed  (Odeon, 
April  18,  1907) ,  is  a  defense  of  French  woman- 
hood against  foreign,  and  particularly  American 
misunderstanding.  The  principal  personages  are 
Mme.  Gontier,  the  young  wife  of  an  elderly  French 
manufacturer,  and  one  Bartlett,  an  American 
friend  and  business  associate  of  her  nephew. 
Bartlett's  notion  of  Frenchwomen  has  been 
gained  from  popular  plays  and  novels,  and  so, 
when  Mme.  Gontier  shows  him  politeness,  he 
mistakes  it  for  an  invitation  and  attempts 
to  kiss  her.  She  quickly  hauls  him  up,  and 
he  is  later  enlightened  as  to  the  true  morals 
of  French  wives,  and  all  ends  happily.  Brieux's 
secondary  target  in  the  play,  of  course,  is  the 
conventional  drama  of  the  boulevards,  with 
its  monotonous  variations  upon  the  theme 
of  adultery.  A  bit  of  the  dialogue  between 
xxiii 


Brieux 

Bartlett  and  Mme.  Gontier  will  serve  to  show 
the  nature  of  his  protest: 

Bartlett.  For  ten  years  I  have  been  reading  your  French 
novels;  pictures,  as  I  understood  them,  of  French  morals.  Not 
one  was  there  in  which  a  woman  did  not  deceive  her  husband. 
I  arrive  at  Trouville,  and  everything  there  is  most  easy-going 
and  irresponsible.  At  Paris  I  go  to  the  theatre,  four  nights 
running  to  four  different  theatres,  and  yet  I  am  hardly  able  to 
believe  that  I  am  not  seeing  the  same  play.  I  am  not  entirely 
correct  —  the  last  one  I  saw  was  different  from  the  others  — 
the  heroine  did  not  have  a  lover  —  she  had  three.  And  the 
women  that  I  have  met  in  Paris  — 

Mme.  Gontieb.  You  must  not  judge  Frenchwomen  by  our 
noveb  nor  our  plays,  nor  yet  by  the  Parisian  ladies  who  have 
been  so  hospitable  to  you.  And  it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
learn  that,  in  spite  of  all  that  you  have  read,  in  spite  or  all  that 
you  have  seen,  you  know  nothing  of  either  the  literature  or  the 
women  of  this  country.  .  .  .  Thank  God  that  despite  vilification 
there  are  honest  women  in  France.  They  are  those  you  do  not 
see,  the  great  majority,  who  live  wrapped  up  in  their  husbands 
and  their  children  and  their  homes  —  in  those  homes  where 
you  foreigners  never  penetrate.  They  are  the  women  that 
you  do  not  see  on  the  boulevards,  nor  meet  in  promenades  at 
concerts,  nor  in  those  centres  of  debauchery  where  you,  the 
foreigners,  are  the  best  clients. 

Of  the  remaining  plays,  "Simone"  (Thedtre 
Frangaise,  April  13,  1908)  deals  with  a  hus- 
band's murder  of  his  unfaithful  wife,  and  with 
the  effect  of  the  crime  upon  their  daughter; 
"Suzette"  (Vaudeville,  September  28,  1909) 
is  a  return  to  the  theme  of  "Le  Berceau" 
and  "La  Deserteuse";  "La  Foi"  (His 
Majesty's,  London,  September  14,  1909)  is 
an  argument  for  the  necessity  of  faith;  and 
"La  Femme  Seule"  (Gymnase,  December, 
xxiv 


Brieux 

1912)  is  a  tract  against  the  "emancipated" 
woman,  with  passages  reminiscent  of  "Blanch- 
ette."  The  husband  in  "Simone"  is  Edouard 
de  Sergeac.  Just  before  the  play  opens  he 
surprises  his  wife  in  the  arms  of  his  best 
friend.  Mad  with  rage,  he  shoots  her  and 
then  turns  the  weapon  against  himself.  The 
lover  commits  suicide.  But  the  husband  re- 
covers from  his  wound.  His  future  existence 
is  consecrated  to  his  daughter  Simone,  who  is 
six  years  old  when  the  tragedy  happens,  and 
who  is  led  to  believe  that  her  mother  has 
been  the  victim  of  an  accident  in  the  hunting 
field.  Simone  grows  up  happy  by  the  side 
of  her  father,  who  adores  her,  and  for  her 
sake  keeps  her  in  ignorance  of  the  character 
of  her  mother.  In  this  he  succeeds  until  the 
day  comes  when  a  young  neighbor,  Michel 
Mignier,  asks  her  hand  in  marriage.  Then 
the  truth  is  out.  Mignier  per^  institutes 
inquiries,  learns  of  the  suspicious  weighing  on 
De  Sergeac  and  breaks  off  the  marriage.  It  is 
a  love  match,  and  Simone  is  inconsolable.  She 
in  turn  questions  her  father,  and  in  a  poignant 
scene  he  confesses  that  fifteen  years  before  he 
had  been  guilty  of  a  serious  wrong,  but  he 
refuses  to   give  her  any   details.     Through  the 


zzv 


Brieux 

incautiousness  of  an  old  servant,  however,   she 
learns  the  facts. 

In  the  original  version  of  the  play  Simone's 
discovery  that  her  father's  hands  are  stained 
by  the  blood  of  her  mother  sends  her  from  him 
in  loathing.  She  trembles  in  his  presence, 
shrinks  from  him  and  refuses  to  forgive  him, 
and  the  curtain  falls  on  her  departure.  The 
first-night  audience  at  the  Theatre  Frangaise 
found  this  ending  unsatisfactory,  and  Brieux 
willingly  changed  it,  as  he  had  changed  those 
of  "Blanchette"  and  "Maternite"  before  it, 
making  Simone  forgive  her  father  and  marry 
Michel,  whose  love  overcomes  the  elder  Mig- 
nier's  objections. 

In  "Suzette"  we  see  how  Henri  Chamfort, 
a  decent  young  fellow,  is  led  into  suspicions 
of  his  somewhat  gay  wife  by  the  evil  sugges- 
tions of  his  parents,  who  dislike  her.  Finally 
he  drives  her  out  of  the  house  and  she  takes 
their  child,  Suzette,  with  her.  Henri  is  eager 
for  a  divorce,  but  Regine,  conscious  of  her 
innocence,  refuses  to  agree  to  it,  and  even 
threatens  to  denounce  Henri  for  a  secret  fraud 
if  he  persists.  But  in  the  end  she  is  forced 
to  acquiesce  in  order  to  save  little  Suzette, 
who  is  the  helpless  victim  of  the  whole  lament- 
able quarrel.  In  "La  Femme  Seule"  we  see 
xxvi 


Brieux 

a  woman's  struggles  to  maintain  herself  in  the 
face  of  masculine  competition.  Therese,  the 
woman,  is  an  orphan  without  a  dot  and  so 
she  cannot  hope  for  marriage.  She  goes  into 
the  world  as  a  journalist,  but  ill  fortune 
pursues  her,  and  later  she  also  fails  as  a  book- 
binder. In  the  end  she  succumbs  to  a  lover. 
The  play  aroused  much  discussion  in  Paris,  and 
Brieux  himself  told  the  Matin  that  he  planned 
it  as  a  protest  against  the  disinclination  of 
Frenchmen  to  marry  dowerless  wives  —  a  dis- 
inclination that  is  filling  the  country  with  old 
maids,  and  disorganizing  all  those  industries 
in  which   women   can  compete   with   men. 

"La  Foi,"  which  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree 
presented  upon  a  grand  scale  in  London,  with 
music  by  Camille  Saint-Saens,  is  the  only  one 
of  Brieux's  later  plays  which  does  not  deal 
with  the  men  and  women  of  today,  and  even 
here  the  theme  has  its  modern  hearings, 
despite  the  early  Egyptian  setting  of  the  story. 
The  central  character  is  Satni,  a  young  Egyp- 
tian priest  who  has  travelled  in  far  countries, 
and  brought  back  skepticism.  He  sees  his 
people  bowing  down  to  false  gods;  worse  still, 
he  sees  the  girl  of  his  heart,  Yaouma,  going  as 
a  willing  sacrifice  to  the  terrible  river  god. 
Against  all  this  degrading  superstition  he  lifts 
xxvii 


Brieux 

his  voice,  and  because  he  has  eloquence,  the 
people  listen  to  him.  The  false  gods  are  over- 
turned; Yaouma  is  saved.  But  Egypt  without 
a  religion  is  now  in  worse  case  than  Egypt 
with  a  false  religion.  The  restraints  of  the 
priests  thrown  off,  the  people  proceed  to 
childish  lawlessness,  and  Satni  himself  is  forced 
to  make  some  effort  to  turn  them  back.  In 
the  end,  of  course,  the  old  gods  triumph.  The 
human  soul  demands  a  rock  and  a  refuge: 
an  unreasoning  faith  is  necessary  to  man.    *    *    * 

Brieux  was  born  in  the  old  Temple  quarter 
of  Paris  on  January  19,  1858,  and  is  the  son 
of  a  carpenter.  He  began  his  schooling  under 
the  Freres  de  la  Doctrine  Cretienne,  but  was 
soon  removed  to  the  Ecole  Primaire,  or  public 
primary  school,  and  from  there  proceeded  to 
the  Ecole  Primaire  Superieure.  This  was  as 
far  as  he  ever  got,  for  his  parents  died  when 
he  was  fifteen  and  he  had  to  shift  for  himself. 
He  obtained  a  small  clerkship  and  determined 
to  continue  his  studies  on  his  own  account, 
but  the  difficulties  of  Greek  grammar  cooled 
his  enthusiasm  for  learning,  and  he  was  soon 
devoting  most  of  his  leisure  to  miscellaneous 
reading.  He  was  seventeen  before  he  entered 
a  theatre  for  the  first  time,  but  meanwhile 
xxviii 


Brieux 

he  had  read  most  of  the  great  plays  in  the 
French  repertoire  and  had  also  made  himself 
acquainted  with  a  good  many  foreign  works, 
including  Goethe's  "Faust."  This  last  stirred 
him  to  the  depths,  and  he  himself  has  told 
us  that  he  "got  drunk  upon  it."  Not  much 
money  reached  his  till  in  those  days  and  he 
could  not  aflford  to  pay  for  lights  for  reading, 
so  he  would  seek  the  bright  places  along  the 
boulevards,  a  25-centime  book  in  hand,  and 
there  read  by  the  free  gaslight  of  the 
municipality. 

A  reserved  and  studious  lad,  he  took  little 
part  in  boyish  games  during  his  schooldays 
and  had  few  friends  as  a  youth.  His  dearest 
ambition,  toward  the  end  of  his  teens,  was 
to  become  a  missionary  to  the  heathen,  but 
the  Marquis  de  Segur  tells  us  that  this  aim 
began  to  lose  its  attractions  as  he  came  to 
realize  that  there  were  "as  many  heathen  in 
Paris  as  in  the  distant  wilds."  In  place  of  it 
there  arose  an  irresistible  desire  to  write,  or, 
more  accurately,  to  teach,  and  its  first  fruits 
were  several  one-act  plays,  chiefly  in  verse. 
The  Paris  managers  showed  little  interest  in 
these  productions,  but  after  a  time  —  he  was 
then  a  month  short  of  his  majority  —  he  got 
a  production  at  the  Thedtre  Cluny,  on  the 
xxix 


Brieux 

south  bank  of  the  Seine,  for  "Bernard  Palissy." 
It  had  a  single  performance  at  one  of  the 
Cluny's  matinees  des  jeunes  and  was  thereafter 
heard  of  no  more.  A  year  later  it  was  pub- 
lished in  a  thin  pamphlet.  The  same  year 
he  and  Gaston  Salandri  wrote  "Le  Bureau  des 
Divorces." 

By  this  time  Brieux  had  determined  upon  a 
literary  career,  and  like  many  another  young 
author  before  him,  he  turned  to  journalism 
as  a  preliminary  means  of  livelihood.  His  be- 
ginnings were  made  at  Dieppe,  where  he  spent 
several  years  as  reporter  and  editor.  Then 
he  was  called  to  Rouen  to  take  the  editorial 
chair  on  La  Nouvelliste,  and  there  he  attained 
to  a  very  respectable  position  as  a  journalist. 
What  is  more  important,  this  service  gave 
him  that  firm  grip  upon  vital  problems  which 
has  been  his  distinguishing  mark  ever  since. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  was  kept  aloof  from  the 
kaleidoscopic  literary  fads  of  the  Paris  boule- 
vards, and  on  the  other  hand  he  was  compelled, 
by  the  exigencies  of  his  calling,  to  give  con- 
stant and  serious  attention  to  the  malaises 
of  civilization.  He  became  the  typical  journal- 
ist—  a  bit  of  a  politician,  a  bit  of  a  lawyer; 
even  a  bit  of  a  priest.  He  learned  something 
about  everything  under  the  sun;  he  began  to 

XXX 


Brieux 

work  out  theories  of  amelioration  and  reform; 
his  earlier  missionarying  impulse  began  to  take 
OH  coherence  and  direction.  The  result  was  a 
return  to  play-writing  —  but  now  he  had 
something  to  say.  The  first  manager  to  find 
it  out  was  Andre  Antoine,  who  had  established 
the  famous  Thedtre  Libre  in  1888.  Antoine 
accepted  the  provincial  editor's  "Menages 
d' Artistes"  early  in  1890,  and  it  was  presented 
at  the  Thedtre  Libre.  The  play  failed  of  a 
popular  success,  but  it  convinced  Antoine  of 
the  author's  talents,  and  thereafter  he  was 
an  invaluable  ally  and  adviser.  Since  then, 
either  at  the  Libre,  or  at  the  Antoine  and  the 
Odeon,  he  has  produced  six  of  Brieux's  plays 
—  "Blanchette,"  "Resultat  des  Courses,"  "Les 
Remplagantes,"  "Les  Avaries,"  "Maternite" 
and  "La  Frangaise." 

La  Nouvelliste  suspended  publication  early 
in  1892,  and  Brieux  came  up  to  Paris.  A  few 
months  before  this  "Blanchette"  had  been 
presented  at  the  Thedtre  Libre,  with  Antoine 
himself  as  Pere  Rousset,  and  its  success  had 
been  so  great  that  the  author,  now  thirty-four 
years  old,  found  himself  a  celebrity  in  the 
capital.  He  was  still  unwilling,  however,  to 
trust  his  whole  fortunes  to  play-writing,  and 
so  he  sought  and  obtained  a  post  on  the 
xxxi 


Brieux 

Figaro  and  continued  at  journalism  for  half 
a  dozen  years  longer.  But  after  the  acceptance 
of  "L'Evasion"  by  the  Comedie  Frangaise 
toward  the  end  of  1896,  the  managers  of  Paris 
began  to  show  a  great  eagerness  for  his  manu- 
scripts, and  since  1898  he  has  devoted  his 
whole  time  to  dramatic  composition.  "L'Eva- 
sion,"  "Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont,"  "La 
Robe  Rouge"  and  "Les  Avaries"  served  to 
fortify  his  position:  both  the  critics  and  the 
public  began  to  give  him  very  respectful 
attention.  In  1910,  he  received  the  honor  that 
is  the  goal  of  all  Frenchmen  of  letters:  election 
to  the  Academic  Frangaise.  By  the  irony  of 
fate,  the  vacant  seat  among  the  forty  immortals 
was  that  of  Ludovic  Halevy  (librettist  of 
"La  Belle  Helene"  and  "La  Grande-Duchesse 
de  Gerolstein"!),  and  there  were  two  formidable 
rival  candidates,  Alfred  Capus  and  Georges  de 
Porto-Riche.  But  Brieux  was  chosen,  and  on 
May  12  he  was  formally  received  by  his  new 
brethren. 

The  Marquis  de  Segur,  in  his  address  to  the 
candidate  on  that  occasion,  reviewed  the  pro- 
found impression  that  the  early  work  of  Brieux 
had  produced,  and  attempted  to  define  his 
relation  to  the  other  French  dramatists  of  the 
day.  "Accustomed  to  the  methods  of  the 
xxxii 


Brieux 

usual  playwrights,"  said  M.  de  Segur,  "the 
manager  of  the  Theatre  Libre  was  filled  with 
astonishment  when  he  read  your  play.  For 
this  maiden  effort  of  yours  had  a  startling 
freshness  and  showed  a  daring  that  verged 
upon  extravagance.  Would  you  believe  it?  — 
the  author  actually  championed  sound  morals 
as  against  folly,  and  the  family  as  against 
chaos.  He  went  the  length  of  depicting  a 
prosperous  home  that  was  not  befouled  by  all 
conceivable  vices.  He  asserted  that  virtues 
could  exist,  even  outside  the  purlieus  of  want 
and  starvation.  Alongside  these  audacities  the 
play  was  not  lacking  in  dramatic  power.  It 
comprised  several  delightful  scenes.  The  spec- 
tators, though  amazed  at  first,  decided  to  over- 
look  its   scandalous   decency." 

And  then  M.  de  Segur  proceeded  to  a  de- 
scription of  the  Brieux  type  of  play  —  the 
drama  of  ideas  as  opposed  to  the  drama  of 
mere  intrigue.  "The  hour  had  arrived,"  he 
said,  "when  a  long-indulgent  public  was  be- 
ginning to  weary  of  the  poisonous  bill  of  fare 
upon  which  it  had  for  several  years  been  ex- 
clusively nourished.  Certain  far-seeing  indi- 
viduals were  asking  themselves  whether  the 
world  was  entirely  made  up  of  scamps  and 
crooks  and  bad  women,  and  whether  there 
xxxiii 


Brieux 

might  not  exist  here  and  there  a  few  of  those 
average  people  who  lay  no  claim  to  perfection, 
but  who  are  not  altogether  deserving  of  scorn 
and  hatred  ■ —  the  people,  in  other  words,  who 
are  commonly  spoken  of  as  'decent  folks.' 
You  arrived  just  in  time  to  justify  this  dis- 
covery, and  you  saw  at  a  glance  what  path 
you  ought  to  follow.  You  conceived  the  idea 
of  the  'useful  play,'  whose  object  is  not 
merely  to  make  people  think,  but  to  make 
them  live  more  nobly.  You  limited  your 
horizon  the  better  to  embrace  it;  you  specialized 
your  work,  so  as  to  make  it  the  more  effectual." 
"The  useful  play,"  said  M.  de  Segur  —  that 
was  Brieux's  aim  and  achievement.  Some 
called  him  "the  Tolstoi  of  the  Faubourg  du 
Temple."  He  drew  his  themes  from  current 
events,  from  the  burning  questions  of  the 
hour,  and  he  treated  them  with  the  firm  con- 
science of  the  artist  and  the  profound  under- 
standing of  the  philosopher.  He  was  awake  to 
the  perils  which  menaced  France,  and  with 
France,  the  whole  of  civilization.  He  had 
"sounded  the  tocsin"  —  in  fact,  made  a  pro- 
fession of  sounding  it.  He  had  gone  about 
with  "the  sincerest  fervor,  the  most  robust 
sanity    of    mind,"    and    yet    with    "a    tranquil 

zxxiv 


Brieux 

good    nature    that    added    a    charming    note    to 
the  clangor  of  alarm  bells." 

Brieux  himself,  in  the  Revue  Bleue,  once 
stated  his  artistic  creed  clearly.  "I  know 
very  well,"  he  said,  "what  the  public  likes 
to  see  on  the  stage.  Its  choice  is  the  spectacle 
of  a  human  will  which  evolves  and  asserts 
itself.  It  demands  (though  without  knowing 
very  clearly  what  it  demands)  that  the  dramatic 
author  should  be  a  Professor  of  Energy.  But 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  dramatic  author  should 
be  an  intermediary  between  the  public  and 
those  great  thoughts  of  great  thinkers  which 
are  ordinarily  inaccessible  to  the  masses.  He 
ought  to  oflFer  to  the  public,  in  an  interesting 
shape,  beautiful  and  generous  ideas.  Yes,  that 
is  the  role  appointed  for  us:  to  seduce  the 
public  by  placing  the  ideas  of  the  philosophers 
within  its  reach. 

"The  theatre  will  be  obliged,  more  and  more 
as  time  goes  on,  to  devote  itself  to  the  study 
of  the  great  topics  of  the  day.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  made  of  the  comedy  of  character  — 
Moliere  has  seen  to  that.  The  comedy  of 
manners?  There  is  plenty  of  that  in  the 
dramas  of  the  day,  but  it  does  not  animate 
them  with  the  breath  of  life.  Let  us  therefore 
put  a  thought  into  each  of  our  works;  and  let 

XXXV 


Brieux 

us  take  it  from  the  life  around  us,  and  from 
the  sufferings  of  our  fellow-creatures.  As  Goethe 
said:  'Fill  your  heart  and  mind  with  the  ideas 
and  emotions  of  your  period  —  the  work  will 
then  write  itself.'" 

— H.  L.  Mencken. 


XXXVl 


BLANCHETTE 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

R0U88ET A    PEASANT 

MmE.  R0US8ET H18  WIFE 

Blanchette Their  daughter 

GalOUX A  WEALTHY  LANDOWNER 

Lucie His  daughter,  and  friend  of  Blanchette 

George His   son 

Mme.  Jules Cook  at  the  Galoux's 

MORILLON A   peasant 

AuGusTE His  son 

BoNENFANT A  ROADMENDER 

An  Expressman. 
A  Postman. 

The  action  takes  place  in  the  country. 
Time  —  the  present. 


BLANCHETTE 
ACT  I. 

The  interior  of  a  small  village  tavern. 

To  the  left,  a  slightly  elevated  counter,  on 
which  are  bottles  and  empty  glasses.  In  the 
foreground,  a  round  table.  On  the  wall,  a  shelf 
filled  with  bottles.     A  door  leading  into  the  house. 

To  the  right,  in  the  foreground,  a  glass  door 
with  white  curtains  leading  to  the  street. 

In  the  center,  a  little  to  the  right,  a  round 
table  covered  with  oilcloth. 

On  the  back  wall  hangs  a  framed  teacher^s 
degree;  distributed  about  are  chromo  lithographs 
of  the  four  seasons  in  the  form  of  young,  blonde 
and  dark-haired  girls;  an  official  notice  of  the 
law  on  public  drunkenness,  etc.  There  are 
also   pictures   of   Carnot   and   General   Boulanger. 

In  the  background  there  are  two  windows 
looking  out  on  to  the  road.  The  curtains  are 
kept  back  by  pots  of  geraniums. 

September. 

Mme.  Roussei  is  fifty  years  old.  She  wears 
a  waist  and  skirt  of  gray  repp,  and  a  blue  apron. 
Rousset  is  sixty  years  old.  He  has  smooth 
gray  hair  and  a  florid  complexion.  He  has  on 
gray  cloth  trousers  and  a  brown  vest,  with  a 
white    shirt.     He    wears    a    silver    watch    chain. 


2  Brieux 

Mme.   Jules  is   a  cook  in   a  good  family.     She 
wears  a  black  dress  and  a  white  apron. 

When  the  curtain  rises  Rousset  is  at  the  door, 
smoking  his  pipe.  Mme.  Rousset  is  putting 
some  vegetables  into  Mme.  Jules'  basket. 

Mme.  Rousset.  There's  no  one  at  your 
house  for  dinner? 

Mme.  Jules.     No. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You've  all  you  need  then? 
You  know  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of — you  are 
the  only  one  we  sell  vegetables  to. 

Mme.  Jules.     That's  all,  mere  Rousset. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Puts  three  glasses  on  the 
counter  and  fills  them  with  brandy.  Then  she 
calls]  Come  in,  pere  Rousset,  come  in  and 
have   a   drink. 

Rousset.  I'm  coming.  [He  enters]  To  your 
health!     [They  all  drink] 

Mme.  Jules.     To  yours! 

Mme.  Rousset.  I'll  have  to  enter  some 
things.  [She  opens  a  drawer  and  takes  out  an 
account  book  in  which  she  does  some  entering 
during  the  following  conversation] 

Rousset.     Always  happy,  Madame  Jules? 

Mme.  Jules.  Always!  I've  been  down  there 
in  the  house  for  twenty-five  years  now,  and  my 
husband  has  been  with  me  twenty  of  them; 
and  we  are  very  comfortable.    • 


Blanchette  3 

RoussET.     It's   really    so.     How    time    flies! 

Mme.  Jules.  Oh,  heavens,  yes!  I  knew  you 
as  a  young  girl,  Elisabeth. 

Mme.  Rousset.  That's  true.  We  were 
friends  before  that  good-for-nothing  over  there 
wheedled  me  into  marrying  him. 

Mme.  Jules.  Why,  of  course.  I  was  even 
your  maid  of  honor.  I  practically  saw  your 
daughter  born,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  love  her  as 
much  as  you  do.  How  time  does  fly!  And  how 
many  times  I've  come  here  to  buy  provisions 
for  Monsieur  Galoux! 

Rousset.     Why  here  he  comes  himself. 

Mme.  Jules.     My  master.'' 

Rousset.     Yes. 

Mme.  Jules.  I'm  going.  [She  drains  her 
glass]  Au  revoir,  Elisabeth.  Au  revoir,  pere 
Rousset. 

Rousset  and  Mme.  Rousset.  Au  revoir, 
Madame  Jules.     [She  leaves] 

Mme.  Rousset.  Is  Monsieur  Galoux  going 
back  to  the  house? 

Rousset.     Probably. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Call  him! 

Rousset.     Why? 

Mme.  Rousset.  One  can  always  put  in  a 
good  word  for  our  daughter.  That  can't  do  any 
harm. 

Rousset.     He'll  not  listen  to  us. 


4  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.     Yes  he  will. 

RoussET.     You  think  so? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Oh,  heavens!  In  three 
months  he's  going  up  for  deputy  — 

Rousset.  You're  right.  Be  quiet,  here  he 
comes.  [Raising  his  voice]  How  do  you  do. 
Monsieur  Galoux?     Your  cook  just  left  here. 

[Monsieur  Galoux  is  a  man  of  fifty-five.  He 
wears  a  jacket  and  a  soft  hat.  His  hair  is  turn- 
ing gray.     Enters  from  the  right.] 

Galoux.  [Shaking  hands  with  Rousset]  Yes, 
I  saw  her.  Well,  everything  going  well  with 
you,  pere  Rousset? 

Rousset.  Things  are  going  pretty  slowly. 
But  come  in,  Monsieur  Galoux,  come  in. 

Galoux.  Thank  you.  [To  Mme.  Rousset] 
How  do  you  do,  Madame  Rousset? 

Mme.  Rousset.  How  do  you  do,  Monsieur 
Galoux?     [Rousset  has  closed  the  door] 

Rousset.  Will  you  sit  down?  [He  draws  his 
footstool  out  from  under  the  round  table]  It's  a 
wonderful  morning. 

Galoux.     Yes  it  is. 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  can  I  offer  you? 

Galoux.  Oh,  thank  you!  I  never  take 
anything  before  luncheon.      How  is  business? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Well,  you  know  the  shop 
doesn't  bring  in  much.  There  are  days  when 
we  don't  have  a  single  customer.     I    can    tell 


Blanchette  5 

you  it's  lucky  that  pere  Rousset  is  tilling  our 
land. 

Rousset.  And  one  has  troubles  besides.  A 
piece  of  land  that  we  bought  when  business  was 
good  —  we  had  our  tobacco  shop  then  —  was 
taken  away  from  us  and  given  to  the  owner  of 
the  other  tavern  —  because  a  former  minister 
came  to  live  in  a  house  in  Paris  where  his 
cousin  was  the  concierge.  I  tell  you,  things 
can  hardly  go  on  like  this  much  longer. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  that  is  not  the  real 
reason  why  time  hangs  heavy  upon  us. 

Galoux.  Well,  what  is  the  reason?  Tell 
me. 

Mme.  Rousset.  It's  on  account  of  Blanch- 
ette —  on  account  of  Elise  —  that  is,  our  daugh- 
ter. When  she  was  small  she  was  always  very 
pale,  so  we  called  her  Blanchette,  and  that 
name  has  clung  to  her  ever  since.  It  is  on 
her  account  that  — 

Rousset.  Why,  yes.  Look  here,  Monsieur 
Galoux,  people  are  always  talking  about  the 
government  —  you  who  are  going  to  be  deputy 
ought  to  know  that. 

Galoux.     Oh,  but  you  are  going  very  fast. 

Rousset.  Very  fast!  Let  me  tell  you  — 
when  pere  Rousset  says  something  it's  as  if  a 
lawyer  had  passed  on  it.  I'm  not  a  fool!  I 
never  went  to  school,  that's  true.     And  even  if 


6  Brieux 

I  can  hardly  read  or  write  there  are  some  people 
whom  I  could  show  a  thing  or  two.  Well!  can 
you  tell  me  what  good  there  is  in  that  piece  of 
paper  that  the  government  gave  to  our  daugh- 
ter? [He  goes  to  rear  of  stage,  gets  on  a  bench 
and  takes  down  the  framed  teacher's  degree  from 
the  wall]  There  are  enough  seals  and  signa- 
tures on  it.  Look,  you  who  have  good  eyes, 
read  it!  I'll  go  and  get  my  glasses.  [He  goes 
to  the  counter  on  which  his  glasses  are  lying,  and 
puts  them  on.] 

Galoux.  What's  this?  Ah,  it's  Blanch- 
ette's  teacher's  degree. 

RoussET.  Yes.  It  just  came  back  from  the 
picture  framer's  this  morning.  They  can  well 
put  it  under  glass,  for  it  cost  us  enough. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Only  the  good  Lord  knows 
how  much  it  did  cost. 

Rousset.  It's  all  right  too.  [Reading] 
"French  Republic  —  A  degree  for  elementary 
teaching.  Teachers  —  First  class  degree  —  Ac- 
cording to  the  law  —  According  to  the  ministe- 
rial decree  —  According  to  the  verbal  process  — 
According  to  the  certificate  —  Deliver  to  Made- 
moiselle Elise  Marguerite  Rousset  this  degree." 

Galoux.     I  understand. 

Rousset.  Very  good!  It's  six  months  now 
since  they  declared  her  qualified  to  be  a  teacher 
—  and  now  why  don't  they  take  her? 


Blanchette  7 

Galoux.  Because  there  are  others  ahead  of 
her. 

RoussET.  What  do  I  care  about  the  others? 
Are  there  any  who  are  brighter  than  my 
Blanchette?  Your  daughter.  Mademoiselle  Lucie, 
can  tell  you  about  her,  as  they  went  to  the 
same  school. 

Galoux.  My  daughter  does  speak  of  Made- 
moiselle Elise,  who  is  her  best  friend,  every  day; 
you  know  we  take  a  great  interest  in  your 
daughter.  I  promise  to  put  in  a  word  to  the 
prefect. 

RoussET.  Yes  —  the  prefect  had  better 
hurry,  because,  you  know,  these  delays,  these  — 
from  a  political  standpoint  they  do  not  make 
a  good  impression  in  the  canton.  I  am  telling 
you  about  it.  People  will  say  that  the  work- 
ingmen  are  not  properly  protected. 

Galoux.  I  promise  you  that  I'll  look  after 
this. 

RoussET.  That  will  be  very  good  of  you. 
You  know  young  people  must  work.  You 
didn't  make  your  fortune  by  twirling  your 
thumbs,  but  in  selling  good  leather.  And  I 
don't  want  to  have  any  one  lazy  in  my  family. 

Galoux.  You  are  perfectly  right.  Tell 
Mademoiselle  Elise  to  have  patience. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  the  poor  thing  is  so 
bored. 


8  Brieux 

Galoux.  Lucie  will  come  and  see  her  very 
soon. 

RoussET.     That's  right. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  won't  you  really  take 
anything?     Not  even  a  small  glass  of  brandy! 

Galoux.     No  thank  you.     I  am  going  now. 

Rousset.  Well  can  we  count  on  you,  Mon- 
sieur Galoux? 

Galoux.     Yes,  but  have  patience. 

Rousset.  Patience!  Patience!  That's  easy 
to  say!  With  all  of  that,  it's  always  the  work- 
ingman  who  is  the  fool  in  the  play.  The  State 
is  deceiving  us. 

Galoux.     But  how  is  that? 

Rousset.  Why  when  it  offered  to  give  my 
daughter  an  education  by  inventing  easy  terms, 
concours;  by  distributing  scholarships  and  mak- 
ing promises!  And  it  should  keep  its  word. 
Formerly  I  listened  to  the  mayor;  and  then  I 
listened  to  you,  who  are  in  politics.  You  per- 
suaded me  to  let  my  Blanchette  go  to  school 
by  making  me  expect  a  heap  of  things,  saying 
that  she  would  make  money  after  she  received 
her  degree.  Now  she  has  it,  and  now  that 
ought  to  let  her  earn  her  living  and  find  her  a 
position.  And  remember  this,  I  am  not  asking 
a  favor:  no,  it  is  owed  to  me.  There  is  the 
paper!  [Pointing  to  the  degree]  It  has  fallen 
due:  it  must  be  paid! 


Blanchette  9 

Galoux.  But  your  daughter  must  wait  her 
turn.  The  others  would  complain  and  say  that 
it  was  an  injustice. 

RoussET.  What  do  I  care  about  other 
people!  I  want  what  is  owed  to  me!  Other 
people's  affairs  don't  bother  me.  Let  them 
protest.      Let  them  settle  their  own  business! 

Galoux.  I  again  repeat  that  I  will  see  the 
prefect  tomorrow.     Good-bye.     [He  leaves] 

RoussET.  [Coming  down  the  stage]  How  silly 
of  him!  We  wouldn't  need  him  if  it  were  only 
a  question  of  getting  our  rights. 

Mme.  Rousset.     That's  true  enough! 

RoussET.     Is  Blanchette  up  yet? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Oh,  yes!  I  heard  her  walk- 
ing about  in  her  room  a  long  while  ago.  [To 
herself  as  she  goes  out]  I'll  have  to  wake  her 
anyway,  the  little  chit  —  she'd  sleep  until  noon. 

Rousset.  I'll  hang  this  up  again.  [He 
hangs  the  degree  back  in  its  place.  Morillon 
and  his  son  Auguste  enter.  They  have  just  re- 
turned from  the  fields.  They  remove  their  hats  as 
they  enter.  They  sit  down  at  a  table  and  are 
silent  for  quite  a  while] 

Rousset.     Coffee? 

Morillon.     Coffee. 

Rousset.  [Takes  soTne  cups  and  saucers  from 
the  counter.      Calls]     Wife,  bring  some  coffee. 

Morillon.     [To   Rousset,   who   is   putting   the 


10  Brieux 

cups  on  the  table]  Aren't  you  going  to  have 
any? 

RoussET.  All  right,  I'll  take  some,  too.  [He 
brings  a  cup  for  himself  and  sits  down] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Pouring  the  coffee]  Fine 
day! 

MoRiLLON.  Yes,  it's  great  weather  for  work- 
ing.    [Mme.  Rousset  leaves] 

Rousset.  Look  here!  Is  it  today  that  we 
are  going  to  come  to  an  understanding  about 
that  piece  of  land? 

MoRiLLON.  Do  you  always  have  it  on  your 
mind? 

Rousset.  Well,  I  surround  it  on  three  sides, 
and  it  bothers  me.  If  it  were  mine,  I  could 
plough  in  a  straight  line  from  here  right  to  the 
church.  That  would  be  fine!  I've  been  try- 
ing to  buy  that  land  from  you  now  for  ten 
years. 

MoRiLLON.     We're  in  no  hurry. 

Rousset.  If  you  want  to,  I'll  trade  it  for 
my  land  along  the  river's  edge,  which  is  almost 
as  large  —  I  said  "almost."  And  what  differ- 
ence can  it  make  to  you  who  are  a  wheel- 
wright! You  only  work  on  your  land  now  and 
then  with  your  lad  there  —  in  the  mornings  or 
on  Sundays.  And  the  bit  of  land  I'm  talking 
about  is  nearer  to  your  shop. 


Blanchette  11 

MoRiLLON.  You'd  like  it  very  much  then! 
Hein? 

RoussET.  Not  at  all!  I'm  doing  it  in  the 
interest  of  every  one.  Hey,  wife,  give  us  a 
drop  to  drink! 

[Auguste  goes  back  to  look  at  the  degree] 

AuGUSTE.     Father! 

MoRiLLON.     What? 

Auguste.     The  degree. 

MoRiLLON.     [Softly  to  his  son]     It*s  true  then? 

Auguste.  It's  true.  Tell  him,  father,  that 
I  want  to  marry  her. 

MoRiLLON.  In  a  minute.  [To  Rousset]  So 
Blanchette  is  going  to  be  a  teacher  —  like 
Mademoiselle  Dumesnil? 

Rousset.  Why  —  it  says  so  there  —  all 
signed  by  the  government.  You  can  read, 
can't  you,  Auguste? 

MoRiLLON.  What  a  foolish  question!  He 
went  to  school  until  he  was  twelve,  and  he  was  a 
year  in  the  army.  And  you  know  very  well 
that  he  came  back  a  corporal. 

Rousset.     Let  him  read  it  then. 

MoRiLLON.  I  guess  she  has  to  be  pretty 
smart. 

Rousset.  Oh,  yes!  I  don't  know  what  she 
doesn't  know.  Her  teacher  said  that  she  had 
nothing  more  to  learn.  Why  the  day  before 
yesterday    there    was    an    instructor    here    who 


12  Brieux 

wanted  to  talk  politics  to  her.  And,  believe 
me,  she  shut  him  up  pretty  quick. 

MoRiLLON.     Who?     The  instructor? 

RoussET.  Why  not?  Do  you  suppose  that 
just  because  she's  pere  Rousset's  daughter  she 
can't  be  bright?  Mademoiselle  Galoux  is  only 
the  eighth  in  the  district.  And  you  know  how 
Blanchette  ranks,  don't  you? 

MORILLON.      No. 

RoussET.     Well,  she  is  third. 

MoRiLLON.  Third!  Is  she  earning  any 
money  now? 

RoussET.  No.  But  she  will  when  she  has 
her  position. 

MoRiLLON.     Yes,  but  when  will  that  be? 

RoussET.  When!  When!  Tomorrow  if  we 
wanted  her  to.  The  prefect  just  told  Monsieur 
Galoux  to  ask  us  whether  we  had  decided  to  let 
her  go  now.  But  I  want  her  to  rest  a  bit.  I 
tell  you,  you  find  mighty  few  like  her. 

MoRiLLON.     You  are  right,  pere  Rousset. 

RoussET.  [Going  to  the  table]  Will  you  have 
a  drink? 

MoRiLLON.  I'll  not  say  no.  [He  drinks] 
Well,  I'll  be  back  soon  —  and  then  I'll  have 
something  to  tell  you. 

Rousset.     About  that  bit  of  land? 

MoRiLLON.  Yes  —  and  something  else,  per- 
haps. 


Blanche  tte  13 

RoussET.  That's  right.  We'll  try  to  come 
to  an  understanding.      See  you  later. 

[They  leave.  Rousset  carries  the  cups  and 
saucers  into  the  next  room  without  closing  the 
door.     Calling  to  Mme.  Rousset] 

Rousset.  And  Blanchette?  Isn't  she  up 
yet? 

Mme.  Rousset.     She's  in  her  room,  drawing. 

Rousset.  [Calling]  Oh,  Blanchette,  Blanch- 
ette! Have  you  finished  with  your  old  codger.'* 
[To  Mme.  Rousset,  after  listening]  What  does 
she  say? 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Still  outside]  She  says  that 
she  is  coming  down  —  that  her  drawing  is  fin- 
ished. 

Rousset.  Tell  her  to  bring  it  with  her.  I'll 
get  my  glasses.  [He  gets  his  glasses  from  the 
counter  and  puts  them  on.  He  returns  to  the 
door  at  the  left]     All  right! 

Blanchette.  [Comes  in  ivith  her  drawings] 
Here  you  are,  father! 

Rousset.     Come  over  here! 

[Blanchette  is  twenty-one  years  old.  She  has 
auburn  hair,  and  is  neither  pretty  nor  homely. 
She  is  dressed  very  simply,  but  there  is  a  certain 
affect<iiion  visible.] 

Rousset.  Come,  let's  see!  [He  goes  to  the 
vnndow  and  looks  at  the  drawing]  This  one  is 
the  model,  isn't  it? 


14  Brieux 

Blanchette.  Not  at  all.  That  one  is  the 
model. 

RoussET.  By  Jove,  one  can't  tell  them 
apart  at  all.  Here.  [He  puts  them  on  the 
table]  Wait  a  moment.  [Calling]  Hey,  there! 
wife!  [To  Blanchette]  Don't  tell  her  anything. 
We'll  ask  her  which  one  the  model  is.  Come 
here,  mother. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Outside]  But  I'm  washing 
the  glasses. 

Rousset.  That  doesn't  make  any  difference. 
Come  just  the  same.  I'll  bet  that  she  won't 
know  which  one  the  model  is.  [Mme.  Rousset 
comes  in.  Her  cuffs  are  turned  up,  and  she  is 
loiping  her  hands  on  her  apron.] 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  do  you  want? 

Blanchette.  Mother  saw  me  doing  it,  so 
she'll  know. 

Rousset.  By  heavens,  that's  true!  [Looking 
out  of  the  window  into  the  street]  Who  is  that 
going  over  there? 

Blanchette.  That  is  Bonenfant,  the  road- 
mender. 

Rousset.  Hey,  Bonenfant.  Come  here. 
[He  goes  to  the  door] 

Blanchette.  Father!  Father!  Please  don't, 
it's  not  worth  while. 

Rousset.  Leave  me  alone  —  I  tell  you  he'll 
not  be  able  to  tell  them  apart. 


Blanchette  15 

Blanchette.  He  doesn't  know  anything 
about  it. 

RoussET.  Doesn't  have  to.  [He  opens  the 
door]     Ah,  Bonenfant!      Come  here! 

BoNENFANT.     What  do  you  want? 

RoussET.  [To  Blanchette  and  Mme.  Rousset] 
Sh!     Don't  say  anything. 

Bonenfant.  [EnterSy  his  hat  in  hand]  At 
your  service. 

Rousset.  Come  over  here.  Look  at  these 
two  pictures.     Which  do  you  like  best? 

Bonenfant.     Who  is  it? 

Blanchette.    Romulus. 

Bonenfant.     Don't  know  him. 

Rousset.  [Bursts  out  laughing]  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
He  doesn't  know  who  Romulus  is.  He's  dead, 
isn't  he? 

Blanchette.     Yes,  father. 

Rousset.  Tell  him  something  about  Rom- 
ulus — 

Blanchette.     Oh,  what's  the  use! 

Rousset.  Just  to  show  that  you're  not  a 
stupid  girl,  and  that  I  did  not  waste  my  money 
in  sending  you  to  school  until  you  were  twenty 
years  old.     Tell  him  who  Romulus  was. 

Blanchette.  [In  a  natural  voice]  "Romulus 
is  considered  the  founder  of  Rome.  In  the  year 
776  before  Christ,  Numitor,  king  or  dictator 
of  Alba   Longa,  was  dethroned  by   his  brother 


16  Brieux 

Amulius.  His  sister,  Rhea  Sylvia,  who  was  a 
vestal  virgin,  consecrated  to  the  divine  cult, 
became  the  mother  of  twins,  Romulus  and  Re- 
mus. " 

RoussET.  [Who  has  been  watching  his  daugh- 
ter with  pride]  You  didn't  know  that?  Nor 
I  either.       She's  not  as  stupid  as  us,  you  know. 

—  The  other  day  there  was  an  instructor  here 
who  wanted  to  talk  politics,  and  she  stopped 
him  up  as  quick  as  a  flash. 

BoNENFANT.  I  tell  you,  the  children  of  to- 
day! 

RoussET.  Now  that  you  know  the  old  codger, 
tell  me  which  one  you  like  best.  Sh!  Don't 
you  others  say  anything. 

BoNENFANT.  I  like  the  one  as  well  as  the 
other. 

RoussET.     But  which  one  is  the  model? 

BoNENFANT.     That  one. 

RoussET.  [At  the  very  height  of  joy]  That's 
Blanchette's  drawing!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  [He  gives 
him  a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder]  Ha,  ha,  my 
old  friend,  if  you  want  to  learn  more  before 
you  die  you'll  have  to  hurry  up  and  go  to 
school. 

BoNENFANT.  [Also  laughing]  Of  course!  — 
You  remember,  don't  you,  Blanchette,  when  I 
used  to  wheel  you  around   in  my  wheelbarrow? 

—  I  never  thought  at  that  time  — 


Blanchette  17 

Blanchette.  [A  trifle  embarrassed]  Cer- 
tainly, monsieur. 

BoNENFANT.  Ah!  So  it's  "monsieur"!  You 
never  used  to  call  me  "monsieur"  when  you 
rode  on  my  shoulders,  or  when  you  climbed 
trees  to  find  nests  like  a  regular  boy.  You 
weren't  afraid  of  showing  your  leg  at  that 
time.  [He,  Rousset,  and  Mme.  Rousset  burst 
out  laughing.  Blanchette  only  smiles]  Now  she's 
like  a  princess  though.  You  remember  in 
Guimbard's  field  when  their  man  chased  you 
after  you  had  stolen  some  apples? 

Blanchette.  [Smiling]  He  had  his  dog, 
Pataud,  with  him. 

BoNENFANT.     You  remember  Pataud?       He's 

dead.     Well,  I'm  going,  for  if  you're  going  to 

begin  speaking  about  Pataud  I'll  be  here  until 

tomorrow   morning.       Good-bye  to  all   of  you. 

[He  leaves] 

Rousset.  Good-bye,  pere  Bonenfant.  And 
he  never  knew  which  one  was  the  model. 

Mme.  Rousset.  We'll  have  to  have  it 
framed. 

Rousset.  That's  right.  We'll  put  it  along- 
side of  the  degree.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  saw 
Monsieur  Galoux  this  morning. 

Blanchette.  [Anxiously]  Isn't  Lucie  com- 
ing today? 

Rousset.     Yes.       Don't    cry     now.       [With- 


18  Brieux 

out  ill  will]  Hein,  your  Lucie!  You  can't  do 
without  her,  can  you?  It's  too  bad  you  two 
can't  get  married. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You're  a  fine  pair  of  friends, 
you  two! 

Blanchette.  [Sincerely,  but  simply]  Yes,  I 
am  very  fond  of  her. 

Rousset.  Her  father  said  that  he'd  speak 
to  the  prefect  about  your  position. 

Blanchette.  [Playing  mechanically  with  her 
drawing]     Ah ! 

Mme.  Rousset.  Don't  throw  your  drawing 
away.  You'll  be  very  glad  to  have  that  when 
you're  married;  then  you  can  hang  it  up  in 
your  room. 

Blanchette.  When  I  get  married  —  I'll 
have  diflPerent  sorts  of  pictures  in  my  drawing- 
room. 

Rousset.     In  your  drawing-room? 

Blanchette.  Yes,  I  want  a  drawing-room 
like  Monsieur  Galoux  has.  And  then  I  want  a 
Louis  XV  bedroom. 

Rousset.  Confound  it!  Listen  to  those 
dreams ! 

Blanchette.     Oh,  I  have  many  others. 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  are  they? 

Blanchette.  There  are  so  many.  Then  I'm 
going  to  live  in  Paris. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Why? 


Blanche  tte  19 

Blanchette.  I  don't  like  peasants  —  I 
mean  to  say  —  I  don't  like  the  country.  So 
I'm  going  to  live  in  Paris  in  the  winter,  and 
then  I  shall  travel. 

RoussET.  She's  off!  She's  ofif!  But  that 
doesn't  go  with  poor  people. 

Blanchette.  Oh,  I  know  that.  But  I  shall 
be  rich. 

RoussET.     How's  that? 

Blanchette.     My  husband  will  be. 

Mme.  Rousset.  And  you  think  that  he  is 
coming  here  to  find  you,  you  a  daughter  of 
inn-keepers  and  peasants? 

Blanchette.     Why  not? 

Mme.  Rousset.  You're  putting  ideas  into 
your  head  now  that  are  bound  to  make  you 
unhappy  later. 

Blanchette.  But  why  not!  Madame  Du- 
barry  was  a  street  merchant,  and  Rachel  sang 
in  courtyards  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  them,  but  — 

Rousset.  Let  the  child  build  her  air  castles 
if  it  gives  her  pleasure.  I'd  rather  have  her 
think  of  that  than  of  unhappiness, 

Blanchette.  Didn't  Monsieur  Galoux  tell 
you  what  time  Lucie  was  coming? 

Rousset.  No.  [Blanchette  goes  to  the  door 
and  looks  down  the  street] 


20  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Softly  to  her  husband] 
Didn't  you  notice  something? 

Rousset.     No. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Something  that  made  me 
feel  badly? 

Rousset.     No. 

Mme.  Rousset.  When  she  said  what  she 
was  going  to  do  when  she  was  once  married. 

Rousset.     Well? 

Mme.  Rousset.  She  fdrgot  us.  She  said 
nothing  about  us.  One  would  think  that  from  that 
moment  on  she  was  going  to  ignore  us.  Rous- 
set —  I'm  afraid  that  our  daughter  is  too  smart 
for  us. 

Rousset.  [Laughing]  Come,  come  now, 
mother.  You  wouldn't  want  to  go  into  the 
drawing-rooms  with  the  fine  ladies.  Why 
mother,  how  would  we  look.  We're  only 
peasants.  Would  you  like  to  make  curtsies 
on  a  waxed  floor,  and  wear  forty-franc  hats  and 
silk  dresses!  Such  things  aren't  for  the  like  of 
us,  you  know.  They're  all  right  for  Blanchette 
who  knows  how  to  talk  and  behave.  All  that 
we  can  ask  of  the  good  Lord  is  to  be  healthy, 
and  to  have  enough  work  until  the  end  of  our 
days. 

Blanchette.  [Coming  back  and  talking  to 
herself]  She's  not  in  sight  yet,  and  she  can't 
be  late. 


Blanchette  21 

RoussET.  [Laughing]  Do  you  know  what 
your  good  old  mother  was  saying?  She  was 
saying  that  she  wanted  to  sit  in  your  gilded 
chairs  and  play  the  lady.  How  the  gentlemen 
would  make  fun  of  you! 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  didn't  say  that.  All  I 
said  was  that  you  did  not  say  a  word  about  us 
in  your  plans. 

Blanchette.  I  —  I  —  yes  —  but  —  why  of 
course  —  you  would  have  a  nice  house  in  the 
country. 

Rousset.  There  —  you  see,  mother.  And 
we'd  spend  the  whole  day  in  twirling  our 
thumbs.  Nothing  —  we'd  do  nothing  at  all. 
And  I'll  want  a  servant  to  bring  me  my  hand- 
kerchief.      [He  laughs] 

Blanchette.  That's  right.  But  you  had 
better  go  and  change  your  clothes.  Here  you 
are  at  this  late  hour  and  not  even  shaved. 

Rousset.  Bah!  I'm  good  enough  to  stay 
here. 

Blanchette.  Lucie  and  perhaps  Monsieur 
George  are  coming. 

Rousset.     Well  he  knows  what  peasants  are. 

Blanchette.     That  makes  no  difference. 

Rousset.  You  think  so?  Very  well,  I'm 
off.  I'm  going  to  make  myself  as  handsome 
as  a  minister.     [He  goes  out  left] 


22  Brieux 

Blanchette.  What  time  do  you  think 
Lucie  is  coming? 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  don't  know. 

Blanchette.  [Going  to  the  door]  Not  yet. 
But  yes!  There  she  is  in  the  distance. 
With  Monsieur  George.  [Returning]  I'll  have 
to  hide  this.  [She  rolls  up  her  drawing  as  well 
as  the  model] 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  no,  leave  it  here  so  that 
Monsieur  George  will  see  it. 

Blanchette.  No,  no.  [Turning  down  her 
mother's  cuffs]  Turn  down  your  cuflFs.  Your 
apron.       Take  off  your  apron. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  they  know  very  well 
that  we  are  nothing  but  simple  folks. 

Blanchette.  That  makes  no  difference. 
[Giving  her  mother  her  drawing]  Here!  Take 
these  with  you. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Going  out  left]  I'll  be  right 
back. 

Blanchette.  So!  [She  takes  a  small  powder 
box  from  her  pocket;  on  the  inside  of  the  lid  there 
is  a  mirror.  She  powders  her  face  slowly  and 
also  fixes  her  hair.  To  herself]  Oh,  my  good, 
sweet  Lucie!  How  I  love  you!  And  George 
—  George.  It's  nice  to  be  able  to  say  his 
name  without  adding.  Monsieur.  [She  goes  to 
rear  of  stage]  Here  they  are.  [She  runs  out 
to     meet    them,     and    returns    embracing    Lucie. 


Blauchette  23 

George,  twenty-four  years  old,  is  in  hunting  cos- 
tume, and  carries  a  gun.  He  enters  shortly  after- 
wards.] 

Blanchette.  [Embracing  Lucie]  How  glad 
I  am  to  see  you! 

Lucie.  And  I  too!  How  are  you?  George 
is  going  hunting.       He  brought  me  here. 

Blanchette.  But  you'll  stay  awhile,  won't 
you? 

Lucie.     Yes,  George  is  going  to  call  for  me  later. 

Blanchette.     How  fine! 

George.     And  don't  I  get  a  how  do  you  do? 

Blanchette.  Yes,  yes!  How  do  you  do. 
Monsieur  George? 

George.  How  are  you.  Mademoiselle 
Blanchette? 

Blanchette.  I  don't  want  to  be  called 
Blanchette.     My  name  is  Elise. 

George.     All  right,  Blanchette  — 

Blanchette.     Again! 

George.     Let  me  embrace  you  — 

Blanchette.     Silly! 

George.  Just  to  say  how  do  you  do.  You 
embraced  my  sister.  [He  embraces  her  when 
she  is  not  looking] 

Blanchette.  Ah,  Monsieur  George!  Lucie, 
make  him  stop. 

Lucie.  George,  if  you  don't  behave  I'll  tell 
mamma. 


24  Brieux 

George.     [Imitating  her]     I'll  tell   mamma. 

Lucie.     Will  you  stop! 

George.  I'll  leave  Lucie  in  your  care.  I'm 
going  to  the  beet  fields  to  see  if  I  can  scare  up 
a  partridge;  then  I'll  come  back  for  her.  Good- 
bye.    [He  starts  to  go] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Enters]  Monsieur  George! 
[To  Blanchette]  How  can  you  let  him  go  like 
that  without  making  him  take  something!  [To 
George]  Monsieur  George.  What  can  I  offer 
you? 

George.     Nothing,  thank  you. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Taking  him  by  the  arm] 
Come  now!  I'd  like  to  see  that.  Come, 
come. 

Blanchette.  But,  mother.  If  Monsieur 
George  does  not  want  anything  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  That's  all  right.  You're 
going  to  drink  something. 

Blanchette.  [Pulls  her  mother  by  the  apron. 
Softly]     Mother! 

Mme.  Rousset.  Leave  me  alone!  A  big 
fellow  like  that!  He's  not  afraid  of  a  glass  of 
brandy. 

George.  But  I'm  really  not  thirsty,  I  as- 
sure you. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Pouring  out  a  glass  of 
brandy]  One  doesn't  have  to  be  thirsty  to  gulp 
that   down.       That'll   give   you   a   pair   of   legs 


Blanchette  25 

to  stand  on.  [She  takes  a  piece  of  sugar 
in  her  fingers  and  puts  it  in  the  glass]  Now  a 
little  lump  of  sugar  — 

Blanchette.     Oh,  mother,  with  your  fingers! 

Mme.   Rousset.     Bah!   My   hands  are  clean. 

George.  That  doesn't  make  any  difiference. 
[He  drinks] 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  see,  he's  not  as  finical 
as  you. 

George.     By  Jove,  that's  strong! 

Mme.  Rousset.  It  feels  good  going  down, 
hein!     Good  luck  to  you! 

Blanchette.  One  must  never  wish  a  hunter 
good  luck.     That  always  brings  bad  luck. 

George.  No,  not  any  more.  Well,  I'll  see 
you  later. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Good-bye,  Monsieur  George. 
[He  goes] 

Blanchette.  [Softly  to  her  mother]  Why 
didn't  you  take  off  your  apron? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Bah!  There's  no  shame  in 
wearing  it. 

Blanchette.  [Bitterly]  And  how  often  have 
I  told  you  that  it  is  not  right  to  force  people 
to  take  something  when  they  don't  want  to! 

Mme.  Rousset.     Ah,  I  never  thought  of  it. 

Blanchette.     It  becomes  tiresome. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I'm  going.  Once  I'm  gone 
I  won't  make  any  more  breaks. 


26  Brieux 

Blanchette.  Mother,  mother,  you're  not 
angry  at  me  —  because  I  told  you  that? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Of  course  not  —  I'm  angry 
with  myself.     [She  goes] 

Blanchette.  [To  Lucie,  who  has  been  read- 
ing a  paper]  Let  me  help  you  off  with  your 
things,  my  dear.  Here,  I'll  take  out  that 
pin.  [She  helps  her  remove  her  hat  and  veil] 
How  I  love  to  wait  on  you!  I  wish  I  could  be 
your  maid. 

Lucie.  No,  it  is  I  —  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  again.  [Embracing  her]  I  have  so  many 
things  to  tell  you! 

Blanchette.     And  I  too! 

Lucie.     Very  well,  begin! 

Blanchette.     No,  you  begin! 

Lucie.     Let's  sit  down  first. 

Blanchette.  Did  you  bring  your  work 
along? 

Lucie.  Yes.  I  have  a  new  stitch  in  crochet- 
ing. 

Blanchette.  How  fine!  I  hope  you  are 
going  to  show  it  to  me. 

Lucie.     Where  shall  we  sit  down? 

Blanchette.  [Pointing  to  the  round  table] 
Over  there. 

Lucie.     No.     Let's  sit  behind  the  counter. 

Blanchette.     Oh,  my  dear! 


Blanchette  27 

Lucie.  But  it'll  be  such  fun.  Just  as  if  we 
were  shop  keepers. 

Blanchette.     All  right.     [They  sit  down] 

Lucie.     It's  very  comfortable. 

Blanchette.  [Looking  at  her]  Your  hair 
isn't  fixed  as  usual. 

Lucie.  Oh,  because  I  am  not  wearing  it  in  a 
knot?     It's  not  the  style  any  longer. 

Blanchette.  I'll  have  to  change  mine  too. 
I  like  you  better  the  way  you  have  it  now. 
Come  now,  what  have  you  to  tell  me? 

Lucie.     I?     Nothing. 

Blanchette.     But  you  just  said  — 

Lucie.  Yes,  but  I  have  forgotten.  And 
you? 

Blanchette.  I've  forgotten  too.  But  no! 
It  becomes  terribly  tiresome  when  you  are  not 
here.     Just  like  at  school.     Do  you  remember? 

Lucie.     Yes. 

Blanchette.     You  beat  me  sometimes. 

Lucie.     I  did? 

Blanchette.  Don't  excuse  yourself:  I  was 
satisfied.     Do  you  remember  when  we  met? 

Lucie.     No. 

Blanchette.  You  were  a  bit  taller  and 
stronger  than  I  was.  You  came  up  to  me  one 
day  without  saying  a  word  and  threw  the 
candies  which  my  mother  had  brought  me  into 
the  brook  in  the  garden.       I  did  not  dare  say  a 


28  Brieux 

word.  Then  you  pinched  me  —  very  hard.  I 
wept,  but  I  was  not  angry  at  you.  The  next 
day  you  embraced  me  and  brought  me  some 
dainties.  I  was  very  happy.  And  from  then 
on,  first  you  would  torture  me  and  then  you 
would  caress  me.     It  was  delicious! 

Lucie.     You're  an  angel. 

Blanchette.  I  knew  that  you  were  rich. 
I  had  seen  your  father's  carriage,  and  you  ap- 
peared to  me  to  belong  to  another  world,  so 
luxurious,  so  beautiful  —  and  so  far  away  from 
me. 

Lucie.     Silly! 

Blanchette.  But  let's  not  talk  of  that  any 
longer.  Where  have  you  been  since  the  other 
day,  and  whom  have  you  seen? 

Lucie.  Oh,  my  dear,  we  spent  an  evening 
at  the  Count  of  Bellerive's. 

Blanchette.  Really!  And  you  spoke  to 
him? 

Lucie.     Why  of  course. 

Blanchette.  How  is  he?  Tall,  blond, 
sparkling  eyes,  distinguished? 

Lucie.  Not  at  all.  He's  short,  fat,  bald, 
and  he  stutters. 

Blanchette.     Oh,   how   unfortunate! 

Lucie.     Why  unfortunate? 

Blanchette.     Did  you  dance? 

Lucie.     The  entire  evening.     My  dear,  with 


Blanchette  29 

barons»    viscounts,    marquis.       The    marquis    of 
Hautfort  was  there  —  you  know. 

Blanchette.     The  one  who  is  so  rich.'' 

Lucie.     Yes. 

Blanchette.  You  lucky  girl!  And  did 
George  dance? 

Lucie.     No. 

Blanchette.     Do  you  think  he  loves  me? 

Lucie.     I  think  so. 

Blanchette.  How  wonderful!  Has  he  ever 
spoken  to  you  about  it? 

Lucie.     Na 

Blanchette.  And  you  have  never  mentioned 
it  to  him? 

Lucie.     Never. 

Blanchette.  That's  all  right  then.  Do 
you  read  the  feuilletons  in  the  Independente? 

Lucie.     No. 

Blanchette.  I  read  all  that  come  into  my 
hands.  In  this  number  of  the  Independente 
there  are  a  young  man  and  a  young  girl  who  are 
in  love  with  each  other,  and  who  die,  my  dear, 
without  ever  telling  each  other  about  it.  It  is 
a  very  pretty  story. 

Lucie.  But  you  are  not  going  to  die,  my 
dear,  and  you  are  going  to  marry  my  brother. 
I  promised  it  to  you  and  I  will  keep  my  word. 

Blanchette.     How  I  love  you.     Just  think, 


30  Brieux 

if  I  become  his  wife,  how  happy  we  will  be! 
We  will  never  be  separated! 

Lucie.  You  know  that  George  pleaded  his 
first  case  last  Friday,  and  he  won  it.  His  first 
attempt  was  very  much  talked  about,  and  a 
recorder  prophesied  a  great  future  for  him. 

Blanchette.     He  will  be  a  deputy. 

Lucie.  Oh,  he  can  have  that  if  he  wants  to 
when  he  comes  of  age.  You  understand  with 
papa's  position  in  the  canton.  And  the 
country  is  republican. 

Blanchette.  Hum!  Radicalism.  But  that 
makes  little  difference.  Once  a  deputy  he  will 
soon  make  himself  known. 

Lucie.     We  will  have  a  political  salon. 

Blanchette.  And  a  literary  one!  I  can  see 
myself  there.  My  husband  is  standing  at  the 
fireplace,  explaining  his  projects;  he  is  sur- 
rounded by  serious  looking  men  who  listen  at- 
tentively to  him.     Both  of  us  are  in  ball  gowns. 

Lucie.     I  in  black  satin! 

Blanchette.  You  give  advice,  you  expound 
your  ideas;  while  I,  surrounded  by  all  the  best 
literary  talent,  serve  tea  to  — 

[The  roadmender  has  entered  during  the  latter 
part  of  this  conversation,  but  the  young  girls  have 
not  seen  him] 

Bonenfant.     Well,     Blanchette,     when     you 


Blanchette  31 

have  finished  chattering  you  can  give  Bibi  a 
cup  of  coflFee. 

Blanchette.  [A  trifle  piqued]  If  you  care  to 
sit  down,  monsieur,  I  will  call  mamma. 

BoNENFANT.  It  sounds  so  funny  for  you  to 
call  me  "monsieur"  —  But  I  don't  want  your 
mother,  I  want  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Blanchette.  Right  away.  [She  goes  to  the 
door  at  the  left] 

Bonenfant.  [Looking  at  Lucie]  Why,  there's 
Mademoiselle  Galoux.  How  d'ye  do,  made- 
moiselle? 

Lucie.     Good  day,  my  friend. 

Blanchette.  [Coming  back]  My  mother  has 
gone  out,  monsieur.  If  you  care  to  stop  in 
again 

Bonenfant.     Can't  you  wait  on  me? 

Blanchette.  No.  I  don't  know  where  the 
things  are. 

Bonenfant.  Ah!  Well,  I'll  go  to  the  other 
place.  All  the  same,  it  seems  too  bad  that 
your  father  sent  you  to  school  so  long  only  to 
have  you  return  so  unwilling. 

Blanchette.  I  am  sorry.  Good  day,  mon- 
sieur. 

Bonenfant.  Good-bye.  You're  not  very 
pleasant  to  people,  I  must  say.  [To  Lucie] 
Good  day,  mademoiselle.  Well,  I'm  off.  [He 
goes] 


32  Brieux 

Lucie.  Why  didn't  you  give  him  his  cup  of 
coffee? 

Blanchette.  I  don't  know  where  the  things 
are.  Besides  I  can't  stand  those  peasants. 
[Mme.  Jules  comes  in] 

Mme.  Jules.     How  do  you  do,  young  ladies? 

Blanchette.     Oh,  they've  come  to  call  for  you ! 

Mme.  Jules.  Your  father  told  me  to  tell  you 
to  come  home  as  Monsieur,  Madame,  and 
Mademoiselle  Durand  have  just  come,  and  they 
are  going  again  on  the  six  o'clock  train. 

Lucie.  Ah,  Leonie  Durand?  [To  Blanchette] 
You  knew  her? 

Blanchette.  Of  course.  I  was  jealous  of 
her  because  she  went  to  visit  you. 

Lucie.  You  are  a  dear  little  fool.  Well, 
I'm  going.  My  hat,  my  gloves,  my  veil.  [She 
goes  to  the  right  where  everything  is] 

Mme.  Jules.  By  the  way,  Blanchette,  please 
tell  your  mother  that  she  made  a  mistake  this 
morning:  she  gave  me  twelve  eggs  for  a  dozen 
instead  of  thirteen. 

Blanchette.     All  right. 

Lucie.     Go  ahead,  Josephine,  I'll  follow  you. 

Mme.  Jules.  Yes,  miss.  Keep  well, 
Blanchette.     [She  goes] 

Lucie.     Blanchette,  will  you  tie  my  veil? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  my  poor  dear,  I  left  you 
all  alone. 


Blanchette  33 

Lucie.  [While  Blanchette  is  busy  tying  her 
veil]  Tell  me.  I  don't  like  to  have  our  cook 
be  so  intimate  with  you. 

Blanchette.     If  you  tell  her  — 

Lucie.     It  is  for  you  to  tell  her. 

Blanchette.     Very  well. 

Lucie.     Good-bye.     [They    embrace] 

Blanchette.     You'll  come  soon  again? 

Lucie,  As  soon  as  possible.  Good-bye.  [She 
goes] 

[Blanchette  stays  a  moment  at  the  door  watch- 
ing Lucie.  Then  she  comes  back,  looking  sad. 
She  looks  about  her  for  a  while,  as  if  she  were 
looking  at  the  walls  for  the  first  time,  and  sighs.] 

Blanchette.  Oh,  dear,  how  tiresome  it  is 
here!  [She  sits  down  at  the  counter]  Where  is 
my  novel?  [She  takes  it  out  of  the  drawer  and 
starts  reading.  Rousset  comes  in  in  a  neio 
blouse.     He  gets  his  pipe] 

Rousset.  [Lighting  his  pipe]  Well,  here  I 
am.       Do  I  look  all  right  now? 

Blanchette.  [Without  looking  up  from  her 
book]     Yes. 

Rousset.     Was  any  one  here? 

Blanchette.     No. 

Rousset.     You  saw  Mademoiselle  Galoux? 

Blanchette.  [After  a  silence,  and  then  as  if 
from  a  dream]     Did  I  see  Lucie?     Yes. 

Rousset.     You    might    stop    reading    a    bit 


34  Brieux 

when  I  speak  to  you.  All  you  answer  is  yes 
and  no  —  or  you  don't  answer  at  all. 

Blanchette.     But  I  answered  you. 

RoussET.  That's  no  way  of  answering.  One 
speaks. 

Blanchette.     But  I've  nothing  to  tell  you. 

RoussET.  Oh,  come  now!  What  did  Made- 
moiselle Galoux  have  to  tell  you? 

Blanchette.  Nothing  that  would  be  of  any 
interest  to  you. 

Rousset.  By  the  way,  you  know  mother 
Dufour's  horse.  Well  it  died  this  morning. 
[Silence]     Well,  did  you  hear  what  I  said? 

Blanchette.  Of  course  —  Madame  Dufour's 
horse  died. 

Rousset.     Well?, 

Blanchette.     What  do  you  expect  me  to  do? 

Rousset.  Well,  there's  one  thing  I'll  tell 
you,  and  that  is  that  all  those  novels  are  turn- 
ing your  head.  And  one  6i  these  days  I'll  stop 
your  reading  altogether.  You  believe  all  that 
is  told  in  them.  From  now  on  I'll  only  allow 
you  to  read  good  books,  like  travels. 

Blanchette.     [Aside]     Thank  you. 

Rousset.     Let  me  see  what  you  are  reading. 

Blanchette.  [Puts  the  novel  in  a  drawer] 
It's  something  that  was  loaned  to  me.  There! 
I'll  not  read  any  longer.  [She  picks  up  her 
crocheting,  and  sits  at  the  center  table] 


Blanchette  35 

RoussET.     You  had  better  not. 

[Auguste  Morillon  and  his  father  enter.  They 
are  dressed  in  their  best  clothes] 

RoussET.  Here  is  pere  Morillon  and  his  lad. 
I  tell  you,  those  two  are  never  separated. 

Morillon.  And  I  tell  you  that  there  are 
very  few  fathers  and  sons  who  understand  one 
another  as  beautifully  as  we  do.  Isn't  it  so, 
Auguste? 

Auguste.     Yes,  papa. 

Morillon.  I  haven't  a  better  friend  in  the 
world  than  him,  and  he  hasn't  a  better  friend 
than  me.  We  work  all  during  the  week,  and 
on  Sundays  we  make  a  little  excursion.  In  the 
evening,  after  dinner,  we  sit  at  home,  our  el- 
bows on  the  table,  opposite  to  each  other.  We 
each  smoke  our  pipes  and  talk  of  things  of  the 
past,  and  we  also  build  many  air  castles. 

RoussET.     You  never  find  it  tiresome? 

Morillon.  No.  He  is  smarter  than  I  am, 
A  little  —  not  much.  He  tells  me  what  he  has 
read  in  his  books;  he  reads  the  paper  to  me, 
and  there  you  are! 

RoussET.  Ah,  you  are  lucky.  But  come 
now,  let's  have  our  game  of  dominos.  [They 
sit  down  at  right] 

Morillon.     I'm  ready. 

RoussET.  Give  us  a  bit  to  drink,  and  also 
the  dominos. 


36  Brieux 

[Blanchetie  starts  to  rise] 

AuGUSTE.  [Who  has  been  watching  her]  Don't 
you  bother.  I've  nothing  to  do;  so  let  me  get 
the  things. 

[After  getting  the  things  he  returns  to  Blanch- 
etie and  watches  her  work] 

MoRiLLON.  I've  something  to  say  to  you, 
pere  Rousset. 

RoussET.     About  the  land? 

MoRiLLON.     Yes. 

AuGUSTE.     [To   Blanchette]     You're  sad. 

Blanchette.     I'm  terribly  bored. 

Rousset.     Well,  what  is  it? 

MoRiLLON.  There  is  a  way  of  getting  that 
land  —  and  for  nothing ! 

Rousset.     For  nothing? 

MoRiLLON.  Aren't  you  thinking  of  marrying 
oflf  Blanchette? 

Rousset.  Oh!  marry  off  a  girl  like  that! 
A  smart  girl  like  "that!  A  lass  who  has  her 
teacher's  degree!  Mademoiselle  Galoux,  who  is 
the  daughter  of  a  smart  man,  she  couldn't  get 
the  degree! 

MoRiLLLON.     You   dou't   mean  it! 

Rousset.  She  was  —  [To  Blanchette]  How 
do  you  say  it?  She  tripped  up  on  her  oral  ex- 
amination. 

MoRiLLON.     Hein! 

Rousset.     [Playing]     Here's  the  black  one. 


Blanchette  37 

MoRiLLON.     Four. 

RoussET.     Haven't  got  it. 

MoRiLLON.     The  four  again. 

RoussET.     Still  haven't  got  it. 

AuGUSTE.  [To  Blanchette]  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  friends  we  used  to  be? 

Blanchette.  Yes.  And  I  used  to  call  you 
my  little  husband. 

MoRiLLON.  The  three,  and  then  the  three 
again.     Domino! 

RoussET.  You  haven't  any  up  your  sleeves, 
have  you? 

MoRiLLON.     Take  a  look. 

RoussET.     The  game  is  mine. 

AuGUSTE.  Aren't  you  thinking  of  getting 
married? 

Blanchette.     I?     No. 

AuGUSTE.  Ah!  Well,  I  guess  that  father  and 
I  might  as  well  have  remained  at  home. 

Blanchette.     Why? 

AuGUSTE.  Do  you  know  what  my  father 
came  to  ask  of  yours? 

Blanchette.     No. 

AuGUSTE.  Well,  he  came  to  ask  for  your 
hand  —  for  me.  If  he  had  agreed,  what  would 
you  have  said? 

Blanchette.     I  am  very  fond  of  you,  but  — 

Morillon.  I'd  like  to  speak  about  my  land, 
pere  Rousset. 


38  Brieux 

RoussET.     Your  land?     What  land? 

MoRiLLON.  Let's  not  speak  of  it  any  more. 
Three. 

RoussET.     Five.     No,  but  what  land? 

MoRiLLON.     No,  no,  I've  said  nothing.     Four. 

RoussET.     What? 

MoRiLLON.     Two. 

RoussET.  Is  it  about  that  David  land  that 
you  want  to  speak? 

MORILLON.      I?      No. 

RoussET.     That's  a  poor  bit  of  land. 

MoRiLLON.     Poor,  my  land! 

RoussET.     Oh,  it's  a  good  place  to  find  pebbles ! 

MoRiLLON.     Pebbles !     Pebbles ! 

RoussET.  Well,  how  much'U  you  sell  me 
your  precious  bit  for? 

MoRiLLON.     You'd  like  it,  hein? 

RoussET.  I!  Six  —  and,  worse  luck,  six 
again  —  dominoi 

MoRiLLON.  Aren't  there  any  under  the 
table? 

RoussET.     No,  look! 

MoRiLLON.     I'll  never  sell   my  land. 

RoussET.     Ah! 

MoRiLLON.  I'll  give  it  to  Auguste  perhaps 
when  he  gets  married. 

RoussET.     I  see. 

MoRiLLON.  Yes.  Yes,  to  have  my  land  one 
must  have  a  daughter  to  marry  off. 


Blanchette  39 

RoussET.     I  understand. 

MoRiLLON.  Yes.  You  don't  want  to  marry 
oflF  Blanchette? 

RoussET.     Ah!  Ah! 

MoRiLLON.     They'd  make  a  nice  couple. 

RoussET.     Who? 

MoRiLLON.     Those  two. 

RoussET.     I'll  not  say  no. 

MoRiLLON.  Well,  now.  Will  you  give  me 
Blanchette  for  my  son? 

RoussET.  Hein?  Blanchette  —  for  —  ah,  no! 
Ah,  no!  At  that  price  she'd  still  be  too  good 
for  your  bit  of  land.  Ah,  here  comes  the 
wife.  Tell  pere  Morillon  who  wants  Blanch- 
ette for  his  son. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Ah,  no!  We  didn't  let  our 
lass  go  to  school  until  she  was  twenty  only  to 
marry  her  to  one  of  the  likes  of  us. 

Rousset.  You  hear,  pere  Morillon,  you'll 
have  to  come  again  when  you're  a  millionaire. 

AuGUSTE.     Come,  father,  let's  go! 

Rousset.  What!  Why  go?  There's  no  rea- 
son to  get  angry.  We're  not  any  the  worse 
friends   for  that. 

Morillon.     That's  all  right! 

Rousset.  Pere  Morillon,  that  is  not  possible. 
You  must  understand  that  she's  too  educated 
for  you. 

Morillon.     All    right.     Keep   your    daughter 


40  Brieux 

for  a  marquis.  For  the  ill  that  I  wish  you  I 
hope  that  you'll  never  repent  having  made  a 
lady  of  her.     Good-bye  everybody. 

RoussET.  We  repent!  We'll  see,  my  old 
friend. 

MoRiLLON.     Yes,  we'll  see. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  the  first  act. 
April. 

Mme.  Rousset  is  sprinkling  sand  under  the 
tables.  Blanchette  is  at  the  round  table  working 
on  the  account  books. 

Blanchette.  And  do  you  know  how 
much  that  makes  in  all?  Two  hundred  and 
seventy-five  francs.     Not  one  sou  more. 

Mme.  Rousset.     That's  quite  a  lot. 

Blanchette.  A  lot!  You  think  that's  a 
lot!  Do  you  know  what  you  are  getting  for 
those  two  hundred  and  seventy -five  francs? 
Here  it  is  itemized:  "To  painting  on  the  front 
of  the  house  these  words,  *Cafe  de  Ceres,'  fifty 
francs." 

Mme.  Rousset.  Why  call  it  ''Caf^  de  CSres" 
when  our  name  is  Rousset? 

Blanchette.  Ceres  was  the  goddess  of  agri- 
culture. So  you  see  it's  the  same  as  calling 
it  ''CafS  de  V Agriculture "  only  this  is  much 
finer. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Will  it  be  to  any  use? 

Blanchette.  [Correcting  her]  Will  it  be  of 
any  use? 

Mme.  Rousset.     Yes,  will  it  be  of  any  use? 

Blanchette.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  will. 
41 


42  Brieux 

What  gives  value  to  an  establishment?  Its 
name.  You  can  be  sure  that  that  plays  a  great 
part. 

Mme.  Rousset.    But  — 

Blanchette.  No;  no,  no,  don't  argue!  You 
don't  know!  I  again  say  that  this  expenditure  is 
necessary, 

Mme.  Rousset.     All  right,  I  consent. 

Blanchette.  Then  there  is  the  painting  of 
the  interior  which  will  cost  eighty-five  francs. 
That  is  absolutely  necessary. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes.  But  we  usually  get 
along  with  five  francs  worth  of  whitewash. 

Blanchette.  I  know  that  very  well.  But  I 
want  allegorical  paintings  with  Greek  borders, 
like  in  the  cities. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I'll  be  afraid  to  come  in 
here  when  it's  all  so  beautiful. 

Blanchette.  Then  —  a  beer  pump  for  thirty 
francs. 

Mme.    Rousset.     But  no  one  drinks  beer  here. 

Blanchette.  If  we  carry  good  beer  people 
will  drink  it.  Then  an  ice-cream  freezer  for 
one  hundred  and  ten  francs. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Ice  cream!  Ice  cream! 
The  kind  they  had  at  Symphorien's  wedding? 

Blanchette.     Yes. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  no  one  has  ever  asked 
for  that. 


Blan'chette  43 

Blanchette.  Because  we  didn't  have  any. 
And  besides,  that  will  be  a  good  advertisement. 
When  people  ask  one  another:  "Which  cafe  shall 
we  visit  this  evening?"  they  will  say,  "Why,  the 
Cafe  de  Ceres;  it's  the  nicest;  and  it  is  the  only 
one  where  they  serve  ice  cream." 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  we'll  never  sell  any. 

Blanchette.     That  makes  little  difiFerence. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Well,  since  we'll  never  have 
to  use  this  ice-cream  freezer  we  might  as  well 
not  buy  one.  That  won't  stop  us  from  saying 
that  we  have  one  just  the  same. 

Blanchette.  And  if  Monsieur  George  Gal- 
oux  and  his  friends  come  one  day  and  ask  for 
some,  how  will  we  look? 

Mme.  Rousset.     Yes,  but  — 

Blanchette.  Come,  mamma!  Let  me  make 
our  fortune.  The  government  is  making  me 
wait  for  the  position  that  it  owes  me.  All  the 
better!  I  am  consecrating  my  instruction  and 
knowledge  to  transform  this  tavern  into  a  cafe. 
I  know  what  I  owe  to  both  of  you;  I  know 
the  sacrifices  that  you  have  had  to  make,  and 
I  do  not  want  to  wait  any  longer  in  order  to 
repay  you.     I  am  going  to  make  you  rich. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes.  [A  pause]  Your 
father  would  rather  see  you  in  a  position. 

Blanchette.  Father!  Let  him  be!  When 
the  chemical  fertilizer  that  I  have  had  him  put 


44  Brieux 

oh  his  land  shows  its  power  he'll  not  want  me 
to  leave. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  but  up  to  the  present 
nothing  has  happened  in  spite  of  that  fertilizer 
of  yours,  which  cost  more  than  all  our  manure. 

Blanchette.  Nothing  has  happened!  And 
why?  Because  we  have  had  no  rain.  The  in- 
gredients have  to  be  dissolved  by  rain  so  that 
the  azote  and  phosphate  can  get  at  the  roots. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  it  rained  last  night. 

Blanchette.  Did  it?  Are  you  sure?  How 
fine!  It  rained!  Now  you'll  see  father  return 
all  radiant.  I  tell  you  that  will  have  made  the 
wheat  grow.     [She  goes  to  the  door] 

Mme.  Rousset.  What's  the  matter  with  you, 
the  way  you're  always  rushing  to  the  door? 
Are  you  waiting  for  something? 

Blanchette.  Yes.  Something  that  I  bought 
in  town. 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  is  it? 

Blanchette.  My  gift  for  father.  You  know 
that  today  is  his  birthday. 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  are  you  giving  him? 

Blanchette.     A  lamp. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  we  have  one  already. 

Blanchette.  This  is  a  lamp  with  a  column. 
High  as  that!  That's  the  way  they  are  making 
them  now-a-days.  Lucie  and  I  picked  it  out. 
You'll  see  it. 


Blanchette  45 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  it's  probably  too  hand- 
some for  us. 

Blanchette.  No,  it  isn't.  Mamma,  please 
remember  once  and  for  all  that  we  have  to 
elevate  ourselves.  I  have  told  you,  haven't 
I,  that  it  is  Lucie's  and  my  intention  for  me  to 
marry  her  brother  George? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Don't  think  of  such  im- 
possibilities! Do  you  for  one  moment  think 
that  Monsieur  Galoux  will  let  his  son  marry  a 
tavern  keeper's  daughter? 

Blanchette.  No,  not  a  tavern  keeper's 
daughter;  but  he'll  not  object  to  a  merchant's 
daughter.  Of  course  it  is  entirely  in  your  hands 
whether  you  want  to  be  rich  within  three  years 
from   now. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Within  three  years!  That 
is  madness,  my  poor  girl. 

Blanchette.  You'll  see.  Nothing  speaks 
better  than  figures.  Isn't  that  true?  Well! 
Listen  to  me.  There  is  a  population  of  two 
thousand  in  our  village,  isn't  there? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Two  thousand  three  hun- 
dred. 

Blanchette.  Let's  call  it  two  thousand. 
Statistics  show  us  that  each  individual  con- 
sumes at  least  twenty  centimes  worth  of  drink 
a  day,  either  in  wine,  cider,  or  something  else. 
And   you   will    admit   that    with    our   projected 


46  Brieux 

improvements  we  will  have  at  least  one  quarter 
of  the  people  trading  here.  That  makes  five 
hundred.  At  twenty  centimes  per  person, 
that  makes  one  hundred  francs  a  day.  Count- 
ing only  on  twenty  per  cent  net  profit  that 
would  make  twenty  francs  a  day,  at  the  very 
least,  that  we  could  pocket;  making  seven 
thousand  francs  a  year,  or  twenty  thousand 
francs  in  three  years. 

Mme.  Rousset.     You're  off  again! 

Blanchette.  Well,  there  is  no  contesting 
my  calculations.  They  are  based  oU  authentic 
figures;  on  the  population,  and  on  individual 
consumption.  They  are  exact;  ab-so-lute-ly 
exact. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  simply  can't  believe  that 
we'll  be  rich  so  soon. 

Blanchette.  Why  not!  The  time  has 
passed  where  it  takes  twenty  years  to  make  a 
fortune.  We  are  living  in  the  present;  we  have 
to  keep  up  with  our  times. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  do  what  I  can  "  to  keep 
up  with  our  times,"  as  you  say.  Even  if  they 
do  make  fun  of  me  when  I  say  the  words  that 
you  have  taught  me,  or  when  I  wear  the  hats 
that  you  make  for  me,  my  poor  Blanchette. 

Blanchette.  What's  that?  I  have  told  you 
so  often  not  to  call  me  Blanchette. 

Mme.    Rousset.    That's    true.       The    other 


Blanchette  47 

day,  at  the  Gaillards',  when  speaking  of  their 
mother,  who  is  always  happy,  I  said  that  she 
was  an   optim  — 

Blanchette.     Optimist. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  optimist.  You  see,  I 
pronounce  it  nicely  no»w. 

Blanchette.     Yes,  well? 

Mme.  Rousset.  They  told  me  that  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  talking  about;  that  the 
word  I  used  meant  some  one  who  looked  after 
one's  eyes. 

Blanchette.  Oculist!  Ah,  how  ignorant 
they  are! 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  you  are  sure  that  you 
are  noft  wrong? 

Blanchette.     Why,  of  course! 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yesterday,  for  mass,  I  put 
on  my  hat.  You  know  the  little  one  that  is 
covered  with  nothing  but  flowers  and  holes. 

Blanchette.     Yes.     Well? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Every  one  made  fun  of  me. 
I'll  not  wear  it  again. 

Blanchette.  And  why!  Does  one  have  to 
pay  attention  to  jealous  and  stupid  women! 

[A  man  comes  in  with  a  'package] 

The  Man.     Mademoiselle  Elise  Rousset. 

Blanchette.  I  am  Mademoiselle  Rousset. 
What  have  you  got  there? 

The  Man.     Books. 


48  Brieux 

Blanchette.  But  haven't  you  something 
else?     A  lamp? 

The  Man.  A  lamp  —  a  very  tall  lamp  — 
is  that  for  you?  I  thought  it  was  for  the 
manor.     I  left  it  in  the  wagon. 

Blanchette.     It  is  for  us. 

The  Man.     I'll  get  it. 

Blanchette.     Very  well.     [He  leaves] 

Mme.  Rousset.     What  are  all  these  books? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  books  that  I  need.  [Read- 
ing the  titles]  On  Intensive  Agriculture.  • —  On 
the  Use  of  Agricultural  Machinery.  —  The  Debt 
to  Agriculture.  —  The  Fortune  Made  by  the  Use 
of  Chemical  Fertilizers.  —  The  Product  of  the 
Soil.  —  A  Treatise  on  Political  Economy. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You're  going  to  read  all 
that? 

Blanchette.  And  you'll  be  the  one  who'll 
profit  by  it. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Who  has  found  the  bill] 
But  there's  some  mistake  here!  It's  not 
possible.  This  isn't  your  bill.  Thirty-two 
francs ! 

Blanchette.  [Looking  at  it]  Thirty-two 
francs  —  yes,  that  is  a  lot.  You're  right. 
[She  puts  the  bill  in  her  pocket]  They  made  a 
mistake.  I'll  speak  to  them  about  it  when  I 
go  by.     You  are  right. 


Blanchette  49 

Mme.  Rousset.  Hide  it  well  so  that  your 
father  will  not  see  it.     He'll  be  back  soon. 

Blanchette.  That's  true.  But  he  will 
know  what  effects  the  fertilizer  has  had  on  his 
wheat  —  and  he  will  be  in  good  humor.  But 
I'll  hide  it  just  the  same.  What  a  fine  birth- 
day he'll  have:  a  beautiful  gift  —  my  plan  for 
his  fortune,  and  his  wheat  hardier  and  thicker 
than  any  one  else's  in  the  district. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Here  he  is. 

[Rousset  enters.  He  looks  very  angry.  His 
blouse  is  drawn  up,  as  he  has  his  hands  in  his' 
pockets.  His  head  is  bare.  He  enters  without 
saying  a  word,  goes  across  the  entire  room,  sits 
down  in  a  corner,  and  fills  his  pipe.  A  long 
pause.] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Softly  to  her  daughter]  He's 
not  in  good  humor. 

Blanchette.  [Also  softly]  It's  because  he 
hasn't  been  out  to  see  his  wheat. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Perhaps. 

Blanchette.  [Aloud]  It  rained  last  night, 
father.  You  didn't  go  out  to  see  your  wheat, 
did  you? 

Rousset.  To  the  devil  with  everything! 
Don't  talk  to  me!  Leave  me  alone.  Yes,  I 
have  been  to  see  my  wheat. 

Blanchette.  Well?  Didn't  the  fertilizer 
work? 


50  Brieux 

RoussET.  Yes,  your  rubbish  worked.  All 
is  lost,  burned,  just  as  if  some  one  had  poured 
vitriol  over  it. 

Blanchette.     It's  not  possible. 

RoussET.     What? 

Blanchette.  I  say  that  it's  not  possible. 
Science  is  never  wrong. 

RoussET.     And  I  tell  you  that  all  is  lost. 

Blanchette.     It  can't  be. 

RoussET.  This  is  too  much!  I  have  just 
seen  it.  All  is  lost  —  my  wheat  and  your 
eight  hundred  kilos  of  fertilizer. 

Blanchette.  [Nervous]  Eight  hundred  ki- 
los!    I  told  you  to  put  on  eight  hundred  kilos? 

RoussET.     Well ! 

Blanchette.  Wait  a  moment.  [She  looks 
among  her  papers  on  the  counter] 

RoussET.  Ah,  you  can  calculate!  They 
teach  you  fine  things  at  school!  At  times  I 
wonder  if  it  had  not  been  better  to  bring  you 
up  as  your  father  and  mother  were  brought 
up. 

Blanchette.  [Who  has  not  been  listening]  I 
made  a  mistake  of  one  zero.  You  should  have 
only  used  eighty  kilos.  Next  year  you  can 
try  it  with  eighty  kilos. 

Rousset.  Ah,  yes!  Of  course!  Your  fer- 
tilizer! I'll  cultivate  my  land  as  my  parents 
did,  and  all  your  fertilizers  can  go  to  the  devil! 


Blanchette  51 

Because  all  such  things  are  products  of  the 
devil,  nothing  but  underhand  dealings  about 
which  I  know  nothing.  People  ate  bread  before 
fertilizers  were  invented,  didn't  they?  I  don't 
want  any  of  your  ingredients. 

Blanchette.  The  old-fashioned  way!  Al- 
ways the  old-fashioned  way! 

RoussET.  Yes,  the  old-fashioned  way.  If 
I  hadn't  listened  to  you  I  would  still  have  my 
wheat,  and  I  wouldn't  have  spent,  I  don't  know 
how  much. 

Blanchette.  How  funny  you  are!  The 
fertilizer  — 

RouasET.  Now  that's  enough.  I  don't  want 
to  hear  any  more  about  it.  Luckily,  I  only 
put  it  on  a  small  corner  —  just  to  see  how  it 
would  work.  [A  pause]  You  haven't  yet  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  the  government  giving  you 
a  position? 

Blanchette.     No. 

RoussET.     Well,  people  are  making  fun  of  us. 

Blat^chette.  But,  father;  I  have  already 
explained  to  you  — 

Rousset.  That's  all  right.  If  I  were  in 
your  place  I  would  be  ashamed  to  keep  on  being 
fed  for  nothing.  [He  goes  to  the  right  and  begins 
to  whittle  a  piece  of  wood] 

Blanchette.  There's  nothing  to  do!  I  have 
not  slept  a  week  now  just  because  I've  been 


52  Brieux 

racking  my  brain  to  find  a  way  to  pay  you 
what  I  owe. 

RoussET.  Yes,  you  "rack,"  but  you  are 
praying  to  God  all  the  while  not  to  find  any- 
thing. 

Blanchette.  [Timidly]  But  I  have  found 
something. 

RoussET.  [Still  whittling]  Ah!  So  you  have 
found  something!  Well!  Speak.  If  you  have 
found  something,  speak. 

Blanchette.  [Without  assurance]  We  have 
to  get  trade  by  making  this  a  real  restaurant. 
Clean  the  interior.  Paint,  on  the  outside,  in 
large  letters.  Cafe  de  Ceres. 

RoussET.     Some  more  of  your  fertilizers? 

Blanchette.     No,  father. 

Mme.  Rousset.  That  is  the  same  as  if  it 
were  Cafe  de  V Agriculture. 

Rousset.  You  know  that,  mother!  Ah! 
And  after  that? 

Blanchette.  Buy  a  beer  pump  —  an  ice- 
cream freezer.  Of  course,  we  could  do  without 
them. 

Rousset.  And  why  not  marble  tables  and 
wicker  chairs  right  away.? 

Blanchette.  We  could  make  seven  thou- 
sand francs  a  year.     I  figured  it  up. 

Rousset.     You   must   have   made   a   mistake 


Blanchette  53 

of  several  zeros,  like  you  did  with  your  ferti- 
lizer.    Is  that  your  plan? 

Blanchette.  Yes,  father.  But  if  you  don't 
let  me  explain,  you'll  never  know  — 

RoussET.  Explain  —  explain.  I'm  nothing 
but  a  workingman  and  don't  have  to  make  a 
fortune.  All  I  ask  is  that  the  good  Lord  give 
me  enough  work  until  the  end  of  my  days  — 
that,  and  also  that  you  get  a  position  soon. 

Blanchette.  I  assure  you  that  if  I  showed 
you  my  figures  — 

Rousset.  Leave  me  alone.  [He  has  fin- 
ished whittling  his  piece  of  wood]  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do  with  this  bit  of  wood.f* 

Blanchette.     No. 

Rousset.  Did  they  teach  you  what  to  do  to 
avert  lightning? 

Blanchette,  Yes.  A  lightning-rod  com- 
municating with  a  well  or  the  ground.  The 
point  attracts  the  lightning,  and  the  iron  is  the 
conductor. 

Rousset.  All  wrong.  You  take  a  piece  of 
wood  from  a  tree  on  which  a  man  hanged  him- 
self the  year  before.  This  piece  comes  from  the 
tree  where  they  found  Pierre  Lariquot.  You 
whittle  your  wood  just  one  week  before  Good 
Friday;  the  following  Sunday  you  soak  it  in  the 
blood  of  a  black  hen,  and  you  stick  it  in  the 
middle  of  the  garden. 


54  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.  And  it's  true  that  a  place 
where  that  has  been  done  has  never  been  struck. 

Blanchette.  How  can  you  believe  such 
nonsense?  Why  they  are  the  last  vestiges  of 
another  age. 

Rousset.     The  —  what? 

Blanchette.     It's  superstition. 

Rousset.  The  old  people  of  our  time  knew 
more  about  it  than  all  of  your  books.  My 
grandfather  taught  me  that.  And  he  got  it 
from  his  grandfather  —  [With  veneration]  who 
was  a  shepherd. 

Blanchette.  Lightning,  thunder,  that's  all 
electricity.  We  know  how  to  conduct  it,  we 
know  how  to  make  use  of  it.  —  How  do  you 
want  a  bit  of  wood?  —  [Laughing]  With  a  speck 
of  intelligence  —  Come,  father.  Your  stick 
whittled  on  a  Friday  —  and  soaked  in  the  blood 
of  a  black  hen.  [She  laughs]  Why,  it's  ridicu- 
lous. A  hen  or  a  rooster,  did  you  say?  Ah, 
I  don't  think  you  know  yourself. 

Rousset.  You  are  making  fun  of  me. 
What  proof  have  you  that  your  books  are  right? 

Blanchette.     Well  — 

Rousset.  My  parents  taught  me  that;  I 
loved  them,  and  I  believed  all  they  told  me  — 
and  it  would  grieve  me  to  find  out  now  that 
they  were  wrong. 

Blanchette.     However  — 


Blanchette  55 

Mme.  Rousset.  That's  all  right.  That's 
all  right.  Don't  argue.  [A  pause]  Monsieur 
Galoux  asked  for  his  last  month's  bill.  Every- 
thing is  written  down.  All  you  have  to  do, 
Blanchette,  is  to  add  it  up. 

Blanchette.     There  is  a  mistake. 

Rousset.  I  suppose  you  forgot  to  put  some- 
thing down. 

Blanchette.     On  the  contrary. 

Rousset.  Well  then,  what  are  you  talking 
about? 

Blanchette.     I'm  going  to  erase  it. 

Rousset.  Will  you  be  quiet?  Who  asked 
you  anything?  Isn't  it  enough  that  you  have 
made  me  lose  my  wheat  without  spoiling  my 
profits? 

Blanchette.  Dishonest  profits  never  bring 
any  good. 

Rousset.  I  suppose  you  learned  that  at 
school.  Well,  what  is  there  in  the  bill  that 
troubles  you? 

Blanchette.  The  milk  and  the  eggs  are 
charged  here  on  the  6th,  7th,  and  8th.  But 
Lucie  and  her  parents  were  in  the  city  on  those 
days. 

Rousset.  That's  true,  it's  a  mistake  —  but 
it's  not  for  us  to  notice  it.  [He  continues 
whittling] 

Blanchette.     I'll  rub  it  out. 


56  Brieux 

RoussET.     Leave  it,  I  tell  you. 

Blanchette.  No,  I'll  not  leave  it.  It's  not 
honest.     Why,  how  would  we  look? 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Trying  to  console  her]  Be 
at  your  ease!     They  never  look  over  our  bills. 

Blanchette.  All  the  more  reason  not  to  de- 
ceive them! 

Rousset.  What  difference  can  it  make  to 
Monsieur  Galoux  whether  he  pays  ten  francs 
more  or  less? 

Blanchette.     But  it's  stealing. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Not  at  all.  When  one 
takes  something  from  a  richer  person  than 
oneself  it  is  not  stealing. 

Blanchette.  Very  well  then,  I  prefer  pay- 
ing the  difference  from  my  own  pocket.  Thus 
you  will  lose  nothing. 

Rousset.  Your  own  pocket!  Your  own 
pocket!  You're  pretty  proud  with  your  own 
pocket.  Where  does  the  money  come  from 
that  is  in  your  own  pocket?     Do  you  earn  it? 

Blanchette.  When  I  get  my  position  I'll 
pay  it  back. 

Rousset.  When  you  get  your  position! 
That'll  be  in  some  week  that  has  four  Thurs- 
days. If  one  had  only  told  me  that  your  degree 
and  nothing  amounted  to  the  same  thing! 

Blanchette.     It's  not  my  fault. 

Rousset.     Finally,     instead     of    bringing    in 


Blanchette  57 

money,  you  are  an  expense.  You  make  me 
lose  my  wheat,  and  besides,  you  want  to  stop 
me  from  making  a  living  with  your  millionaire's 
scruples. 

Blanchette.  But  I  ask  nothing  better  than 
to  work.     Get  me  a  position.     Put  me  in  a  store. 

RoussET.  No  one  would  want  you.  You 
can't  do  anything  with  your  fingers.  And 
you're  too  particular  to  go  into  commerce. 

Blanchette,     Find  me  something  else  — 

RoussET.  What?  Tell  me,  what.?  You 
have  ideas  of  great  things  —  ideas  that  you 
get  from '  your  novels.  All  your  reading  has 
turned  your  head.  You're  good  for  nothing 
but  spending  money.  For  that  you  are  per- 
fect. If  you  had  Rothschild's  fortune,  you'd 
soon  squander  it.  But  for  that  which  is  —  [A 
man  enters]     What  have  you  there? 

The  Man.  It's  for  you,  pere  Rousset. 
It's  a  lamp,  and  a  beauty  at  that.  It  comes 
from  the  Panier  fleuri.  {He  takes  the  lamp 
out  of  a  basket]  It  was  wrapped  up  in  straw 
with  some  other  things.  My  Lord,  it's  big 
enough,  too.  I  thought  it  belonged  up  at  the 
manor. 

Blanchette.  Yes,  it's  for  us.  [To  her 
father]     That  is  my  birthday  gift  for  you. 

The  Man.  If  the  address  hadn't  been  on  it 
I'd  never  believed  it  was  for  you. 


58  Brieux 

RoussET.  [After  a  pause]  Why  not?  Just 
because  I  haven't  a  great  coat  do  I  always  have 
to  read  by  candle  light? 

The  Man.  I  know  very  well  that  you  at- 
tend to  business.  That's  true.  Still  you  are 
lucky  to  have  a  young  lady  who  sends  you  such 
lovely  presents  for  your  birthday. 

RoussET.     Yes.     She  has  good  taste. 

The  Man.  [Who  has  finished  mounting  the 
lamp]  Look.  It  makes  one  think  one  is  in 
a  drawing-room. 

RoussET.     That's  true.      It's  very  pretty. 

Mme.  Rousset.     And  it  is  so  ornamental. 

The  Man.  Is  your  daughter  still  waiting 
for  her  position? 

Rousset.  She  has  it.  But  we  are  in  no 
hurry  to  get  rid  o|  her.  The  government 
will  have  to  wait. 

The  Man.  Indeed!  Well,  good-bye,  pere 
Rousset. 

Blanchette.  [Giving  him  a  tip]  Here  is 
something  for  you. 

The  Man.     Thank  you,   miss.     [He  leaves] 

Rousset.     How  much  did  you  give  him? 

Blanchette.     Two  sous. 

Rousset.  You  should  have  given  him  a 
drink  instead. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  it's  the  same  price. 


Blanchette  59 

RoussET.  Yes,  but  we'd  have  made  our 
profit. 

Mme.  Rousset.  It  doesn't  make  any  difiPer- 
ence. 

Blanchette.  Father,  I  wish  you  many 
happy  returns  of  the  day.  [She  embraces  him] 
You  like  the  lamp.'* 

Rousset.  Yes,  but  why  is  it  perched  so 
high  up  in  the  air.?* 

Blanchette.     It's  prettier  that  way. 

Rousset.  It's  stupidly  conceived.  You 
know,  we  don't  have  to  light  up  the  walls. 
When  I  have  a  lamp  I  want  to  use  it  to  see 
down  here  —  on  the  table,  when  I  read  my 
paper,  or  play  dominos. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  if  it's  the  style! 

Rousset.  What  the  deuce  do  I  care  about 
style?  Are  you  in  style.?^  There's  no  need  of 
using  kerosene  to  light  up  the  ceiling. 

Blanchette.  Then  you  do  not  like  it?  Well 
it  can  be  exchanged. 

Rousset.  Na  Wait  a  bit  —  I'll  fix  it. 
[He  takes  the  lamp  and  goes  out  left] 

Blanchette.     What's  he  going  to  do  with  it? 

Mme.  Rousset.     He's  probably  going  to  fill  it. 

Blanchette.  [Looking  out  of  the  door]  He's 
taking  it  into  the  yard. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  the  kerosene  is  in  the 
shed. 


60  Brieux 

Blanchette.  That's  true.  [A  pause]  Oh, 
heavens!     how  tiresome  it  gets  here. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  ask  myself  what  you 
lack.     Do  I  perchance  find  it  tiresome? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  it's  not  the  same  thing. 
No  one  loves  me.  My  father  makes  me  sad, 
and  galls  me.  It's  not  my  fault  if  I  cannot 
earn  anything.  I  studied  well  at  school.  I 
have  my  degree.  I  have  done  my  duty!  You 
see  the  rest.  I  am  used  harshly  and  treated 
like  a  stranger.     No  one  understands  me. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Well,  what  do  you  want 
us  to  do  more  for  you?  But,  I  repeat,  what  is 
the  matter  with  you?     Aren't  you  happy? 

Blanchette.  No.  Far  from  it.  There  are 
nights  that  I  do  not  get  to  sleep  until  dawn, 
after  having  wept  —  my  head  buried  in  my 
pillow  so  that  no  one  will  hear  me.  I  feel  my- 
self so  alone,  so  abandoned.  Neither  of  you 
love  me  as  I  should  be  loved. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Come  now!  Come  now! 
Ah,  your  father  was  right,  if  you  didn't  know 
how  to  read  or  write  you'd  not  invent  such 
silly  things. 

Blanchette.     Invent! 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  invent.  Can  you  tell 
me  why  you  are  crying?     Now  tell  me. 

Blanchette.  I  don't  know.  I  am  bored  — 
everything  is  sad  about  me.     I  am  bored. 


Blanche  tte  61 

Mme.  Rousset.  Always  the  same  refrain: 
I  am  bored!     Work,  and  you'll  not  be  bored. 

Blanchette.  You  do  not  love  me,  mother. 
Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Yes,  you  love  me  very 
much.  But  just  see.  There  are  times  when 
I  think  I  am  going  mad,  and  when  I  feel  myself 
capable  of  doing  the  most  horrible  things. 
Love  me  a  lot  —  I  weep  so  often  when  no  one 
is  around. 

Mme.  Rousset.  My  poor  Blanchette,  you 
are  sad.  But  I  too  have  troubles  and  a  great 
many.  I  am  no  more  the  mother  that  you 
would  like;  and  you  are  not  the  daughter  that 
I  used  to  love  so  much.  They  changed  you 
down  there.  And  we  understand  each  other 
but  seldom.  You  talk  of  weeping  when  no  one 
is  about.  But  I  too  have  often  wept  in  the 
corner  all  on  your  account. 

Blanchette.  My  poor  mamma.  On  my 
account ! 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes.  I  never  told  you  that. 
But  every  time  I  went  to  see  you  at  school 
I  returned  with  an  aching  heart. 

Blanchette.     But  why? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Ah,  those  visits!  I  shall 
never  forget  them.  When  I  used  to  come  into 
the  parlor  and  see  you  playing  with  your  little 
friends  —  you  were  gay,  happy.  But  when 
they  told  you  that  I  had  come  you  lost  your 


62  Brieux 

gaiety  all  of  a  sudden;  your  face  became  hard, 
and  you  wore  a  bored  expression,  and  I  soon 
realized  that  my  visits  caused  you  a  great  deal 
of  annoyance. 

Blanchette.     You  are  wrong,  mamma. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Noh  When  I  was  speaking 
you  used  to  look  me  over  from  head  to  foot  — 
you  compared  my  appearance  with  the  mothers 
of  your  little  friends  —  and  —  I  never  under- 
stood it  until  later  —  you  were  ashamed  of  me. 

Blanchette.     Mamma!     No!   I   beg  you  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  yes.  I  know  it.  I'm 
stupid,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  didn't 
notice  it  sooner.  I  used  to  tell  you  what  was 
happening  here  at  home,  thinking  that  it 
would  interest  you,  and  you  used  to  interrupt 
me  to  say:  —  "Oh,  mamma!  You  have  no 
gloves  on!"  or  "There  are  holes  in  your 
gloves."  And  I,  so  happy  at  seeing  you,  and 
thinking  that  you  were  also  happy,  would  reply, 
"Bah!  That  makes  no  difference!  If  any  one 
doesn't  like  them  they  can  buy  me  a  new  pair." 
Foolish,  wasn't  it?  Then  you  would  cau- 
tiously look  around  to  see  whether  any  one  had 
heard,  and  then  you  would  tell  me  not  to 
speak  so  loud.  You  wished  that  I  wouldn't 
come  again. 

Blanchette.     I  ask  forgiveness! 

Mme.    Rousset,      But    you     are     not     bad. 


Blauchette  63 

However  —  one  day!  —  how  I  suffered!  You 
thought  I  had  gone  —  one  of  your  friends  asked 
you:  "Was  that  woman  your  governess?"  And 
you  did  not  dare  answer. 

Blanchette.     Forgive  me! 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  felt  so  badly  —  and  as  I 
did  not  want  to  say  anything  to  your  father 
I  told  him  that  I  had  lost  one  hundred  francs. 
He  flew  into  a  terrible  fury  and  almost  beat 
me. 

Blanchette.  [Falling  on  her  neck]  Mother! 
Mother!  I  beg  of  you!  Don't  speak  of  it  any 
more!     Never!     Never! 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Holding  her  in  her  arms] 
Now  you  see  that  I  too  have  had  my  sorrow, 
my  poor  Blanchette.  Don't  cry!  It  wasn't 
your  fault.      But  it  made  me  feel  so  badly. 

[They  both  weep.  A  pause.  Rousset  enters 
carrying  the  lamp.  He  has  sawed  off  the  column, 
and  it  is  now  the  size  of  an  ordinary  lamp.  It 
is  very  ugly.      The  women  separate] 

Rousset.     Now  she's  fixed. 

Blanchette.     Oh,  what  have  you  done? 

Rousset.  I  removed  the  part  that  didn't 
belong  there.  Now  we'll  have  light  on  the 
table. 

Blanchette.  [To  her  mother]  My  beautiful 
lamp! 

Mme.  Rousset.     It's  better  this  way. 


64  Brieux 

Blanchette.  [Viewing  it  from  a  distance] 
You  think  so? 

RoussET.     [To  Blanchette]   Aren't  you  satisfied? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  yes.  [She  takes  the  lamp 
and  starts  to  go  out  left] 

Mme.  Rousset.     You're  taking  it  away? 

Blanchette.  I'm  going  to  fill  it.  [She 
leaves.  Immediately  there  is  the  noise  of  broken 
glass] 

Rousset.  [Rushes  out  left]  Ah!  The  little 
devil!  She  broke  it  on  purpose!  [Outside] 
I'm  sure  that  you  did  it  on  purpose!  Didn't 
you  do  it  on  purpose? 

Blanchette.  [Outside]  Yes,  I  did  it  on 
purpose!  Yes,  I  did.  That  will  teach  you  a 
lesson. 

Rousset.  [Outside]  Sos  that  will  teach  me 
a  lesson,  will  it?  Well,  here!  Take  that! 
That  will  teach  you  a  lesson.  [One  hears  him 
strike  Blanchette,  and  she  cries  out] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Rushes  out]  Come,  Rous- 
set!    That's  enough  now! 

Rousset.  [Enters,  holding  Blanchette  by  the 
arm.  She  is  not  weeping]  Do  you  still  say 
that  you  did  it  on  purpose? 

Blanchette.  Yes.  I  did  it  on  purpose  to 
punish  you  for  your  stupidity. 

Rousset.  [Raising  his  hand]  You  want 
another? 


Blanchette  65 

Mme.  Rousset.     [Interposing]     Rousset! 

Blanchette.  [Braving  him]  You  can  beat 
as  much  as  you  like.  You  can  kill  me.  I 
don't  care!     I'll  not  give  in  to  you. 

Rousset.     Say  that  again. 

Blanchette.  You  are  hurting  me  —  with 
your  big  hands. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Trying  to  separate  them] 
Blanchette!  Be  quiet!  Do  you  hear  me! 
Rousset,  stop  that  now. 

Blanchette.  No,  I'll  not  be  quiet.  You 
haven't  the  right  to  beat  me.  We  shall  see. 
I'll  put  in  a  complaint.  The  law  will  not  per- 
mit you  to  beat  me. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Exasperated]  Will  you  be 
quiet ! 

Blanchette.     No! 

Mme.  Rousset.     Will  you  be  quiet! 

Blanchette.     No! 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Furious]  You  shall  obey 
me,  you  little  devil !     Or  — 

Blanchette.  [Crying  out  with  pain]  You 
are  hurting  me. 

Rousset.  Ah,  let  her  alone!  I'll  go  take  a 
bit  of  a  walk. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes,  that's  best.  [She 
pushes  her  roughly  away]  I  don't  know  what 
I'll  do  to  her.     [Rousset  leaves] 

Mme.    Rousset.     You   see;  you've   put   your 


66  Brieux 

father  into  a  rage.  He'll  go  and  drink  now 
and  come  back  worse  than  ever. 

Blanchette.  You  might  as  well  kill  me 
right  away.     Then  you'll  be  rid  of  me. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  are  nothing  but  a 
fool! 

Blanchette.     Thank  you! 

Mme.  Rousset.  A  fool!  In  spite  of  all 
your  learning. 

Blanchette.     Go  on. 

Mme.   Rousset.     You'll  never  be  any   good. 

Blanchette.     That's  still  nicer! 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  I  tell  you  that  this 
will  not  go  on,  and  as  long  as  you  are  here 
you'll  obey.     Do  you  hear!     [She  goes  out  left] 

Blanchette.  [Alone]  If  only  some  one 
would  come  and  take  me  away  from  this  hell! 
I  should  like  to  leave  here,  go  to  the  city,  and 
do  anything.  I'd  be  better  ofiF  anywhere  than 
here  where  my  parents  detest  me,  and  to  whom 
I  am  less  than  a  stranger. 

[Lucie  and  her  father  enter] 

Lucie.     How  do  you  do,  Elise? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  it's  you!  How  glad  I  am 
to  see  you! 

Galoux.     Good  morning  — 

Blanchette.  Oh,  good  morning.  Monsieur 
Galoux.  What  good  wind  brings  you  here? 
[To  Lucie]     You  are  well? 


Blanchette  67 

Lucie.  You  look  as  if  y  m  had  been  weep- 
ing! 

Blanchette.  It's  nothing.  You  are  very- 
kind  to  bring  Lucie  to  see  me.  Although  my 
parents  are  very  good  I  get  terribly  bored 
waiting, 

Galoux.     I  bring  you  news  about  your  position. 

Blanchette.     Good  news? 

Galoux.  Yes,  my  dear.  There  were  two 
thousand  candidates  ahead  of  you,  I  have  used 
all  my  influence,  and  now  — 

Blanchette.     Yes? 

Galoux.  Now  you  are  only  the  five  hundred 
and  fourteenth. 

Blanchette.  That  means  —  I'll  have  to 
wait  how  long? 

Galoux.  Perhaps  six  months,  perhaps  a 
year. 

Blanchette.  Listen,  Monsieur  Galoux.  I 
do  not  want  to  do  a  lot  of  begging,  but  I'll  tell 
you  this:  if  I  have  to  wait  even  six  weeks, 
much  less  six  months,  or  a  year,  there's  no  use 
in  bothering  about  me  any  longer. 

Galoux.     Why  is  that? 

Blanchette.  Because  I  shall  be  dead  by 
that  time. 

Galoux.  Girls  at  your  age  speak  a  lot 
about  death,  but  that's  as  far  as  they  ever  get. 

Blanchette.     I'm  not  a  girl  like  the  others. 


68  Brieux 

I  cannot  tell  you  everything.  Monsieur  Galoux, 
so  you  will  have  to  imagine  the  rest.  Although 
my  parents  are  very  good,  I  repeat  that  I  suffer 
a  great  deal  here,  a  great  deal.  And  my 
parents  feel  badly  to  see  that  I  am  idle.  We 
get, excited,  become  unjust  toward  one  another, 
and  a  time  comes  when  life  is  no  longer  bearable 
together.  »  We  are  now  at  that  stage. 

Galoux.  I  see!  I  see!  But  do  not  get 
discouraged.      I  can  see  nothing  —  unless  — 

Lucie.     Unless  — 

Galoux.  Heavens,  it's  hard  to  state  it. 
Would  you  consent  to  be  a  companion  to  a 
young  girl  of  your  age  who  is  preparing  for  the 
examinations  which  you  have  just  passed.^^ 

Blanchette.     With  all  my  heart. 

Galoux.  Even  if  the  girl  in  question  were 
Lucie? 

Lucie.  [Embracing  him]  Oh,  papa,  how 
good  you  are! 

Blanchette.     But  that  would  be  paradise. 

Galoux.     You  would  be  paid  — 

Blanchette.  Let's  not  talk  of  that  —  my 
board  and  lodging  would  be  all  that  I  asked. 

Galoux.     Well,  we'll  see. 

Lucie.     What  joy! 

Blanchette.     How  wonderful! 

Galoux.  One  thing  more.-  I  ask  three 
days'  patience  of  you,  my  dear  —  three  days  is 


Blanchette  69 

not  too  much.  During  that  time  I  will  go  to 
the  prefect  once  more,  and  if  I  am  not  success- 
ful, all  you  have  to  do  is  ask  your  father 
whether  our  arrangements  are  satisfactory.  If 
they  are,  I'll  come  to  speak  to  him,  and  "the 
thing  will  be  settled.  But  don't  speak  to  any 
one  about  this. 

Blanchette.     I  promise  not  to. 

Galoux.  Now  let  us  speak  of  something  else. 
Tomorrow  Monsieur  de  Hautfort  is  giving  a  hunt. 
We  are  not  going  to  be  in  it,  but  we  are  going  to 
be  spectators. 

Lucie.  There  is  room  for  one  more  in  our 
carriage. 

Blanchette.  How  good  of  you!  But  I  have 
nothing  to  wear. 

Lucie.    You  can  come  anyway. 

Galoux.  We  will  be  four:  George,  Lucie,  you 
and  I  —  I  counted  on  seeing  your  parents  so 
that  I  could  ask  them. 

Blanchette.  Mamma  will  be  back  very 
soon.     Is  a  hunt  nice? 

Lucie.  Yes,  very  nice.  And  then  there  will 
be  a  lot  of  style. 

Blanchette.  But  don't  you  think  it's  aw- 
fully barbarous?  The  poor  beast  that  is  hunted 
all  day. 

Lucie.  But  it  is  one  of  the  finest  pleasures 
there  is. 


70  Brieux 

Blanchette.  I  know  that;  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  women  should  form  some  sort  of  a 
league  of  pity  in  order  to  stop  the  men  from 
being  so  cruel.    I  ask  your  pardon,  sir. 

Galoux.  I  agree  with  you.  Animals  larger 
than  a  hare  should  not  be  hunted. 

Blanchette.  I  know  that  these  hunts  allow 
luxurious  showings,  and  give  men  a  good 
chance  to  show  their  courage,  but  it's  all  noth- 
ing but  vanity.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mon- 
sieur Galoux? 

Galoux.     Absolutely. 

Blanchette,  If  one  could  describe  the  moral 
sufferings  of  one  of  those  hunted  stags  it  would 
make  the  world  weep. 

Galoux.     But  has  the  stag  any  moral  sufferings.'* 

Blanchette.  I  believe  so.  In  any  case,  if 
I  were  a  lord  —  [Rousset  and  Bonenfant  enter] 

RoussET.  Tell  me,  Blanchette,  is  it  true  that 
you  refused  to  give  this  man  something  to  drink? 
How  do  you  do,  Monsieur  Galoux,  and  you. 
Mademoiselle  Galoux?  Answer  me.  Is  it  true 
that  you  refused  to  give  this  man  something 
to  drink? 

Blanchette.     I  don't  remember. 

Rousset.  We'll  have  to  clear  up  this  little 
matter.  [Goes  to  the  door  at  left]  Hey!  wife, 
come  here.  [Mme.  Rousset  enters]  You  are  a 
witness.  Monsieur  Galoux.     Here  is  Bonenfant, 


Blanchette  71 

the  roadmender,  both  a  friend  and  client  of 
mine.  I've  been  wondering  for  quite  some 
time  now  why  I  haven't  been  seeing  my  old 
friend  Bonenfant.  And  just  a  little  while  ago, 
as  I  was  going  by  the  other  tavern,  you  know 
the  one  which  has  the  tobacco  shop,  I  met 
Bonenfant  coming  out.  Says  I  to  him:  "I 
notice  that  you  do  not  trade  with  us  any 
more."  "No,"  says  he,  "but  now  all  you  re- 
ceive are  great  people."  Then  he  explained 
to  me  how  one  day  when  he  came,  and  neither 
my  wife  nor  I  were  at  home,  he  couldn't  get 
any  one  to  wait  on  him.  And  I  want  to  know 
now  whether  that  is  true. 

Bonenfant.  Your  daughter  told  me  that 
she  did  not  know.  But  Mademoiselle  Galoux 
can  tell  you  —  she  was  there. 

Blanchette.  [After  a  momenVs  embarrass- 
ment]    I  won't  lie;  it's  true. 

Bonenfant.     Ah,  so  you  see! 

RoussET.  [Furious]  Well  now!  You  are  now 
going  to  apologize  to  this  man  whom  you  have 
insulted,  and  hurt.  You  are  going  to  beg  him 
to  pardon  your  pride.  He's  a  roadmender, 
that's  true,  but  he  is  a  friend  of  your  father, 
and  yoKi  must  respect  him.  Ah,  so  you  were 
afraid  of  soiling  your  hands  by  giving  a  good 
man  a  cup  of  coffee!  If  I  was  able  to  send  you 
to  school  until  you  were  twenty  years  old  and 


72  Brieux 

give  you  that  instruction  of  which  you  are  now 
so  proud,  it  was  because  neither  your  mother  nor 
I  were  ever  ashamed  of  the  work  which  you 
now  blush  to  do.  [He  takes  an  apron  from  the 
table]  You  are  going  to  put  on  this  apron. 
Not  a  word  now,  or  I'll  give  you  a  slap  in 
front  of  everybody  here!  [He  puts  the  apron 
on  her]  You  are  going  to  beg  the  roadmender's 
pardon,  and  you  are  going  to  give  him  a  cup  of 
cofiFee. 

Blanchette.  [Going  to  the  roadmender]  Mon- 
sieur, I  beg  your  pardon.     [She  weeps] 

BoNENFANT.  There's  no  sense  in  weeping 
about  that,  Blanchette,  I'm  not  angry  with  you. 

RoussET.  Yes,  yes.  That's  all  right.  Serve 
him  now. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Come  now!  That's  enough. 
I'll  serve  him  myself. 

Rousset.  Be  calm  now,  mother!  [To 
Blanchette]     And  you,  obey! 

[Still  weeping  she  places  a  cup  in  front  of  the 
roadmender] 

Lucie.  [Simply]  I'll  help  you.  [She  brings 
the  sugar  bowl.     Blanchette  pours  the  coffee] 

Galoux.  If  Mademoiselle  ElJse  was  in  the 
wrong,  pere  Rousset,  she  has  now  completely 
atoned  for  it,  and  it  seems  that  you   in  turn  — 

Rousset.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur  Ga- 
loux, but  I  do  as  my  head  tells  me  —  and,  you 


Blanchette  73 

know,  a  pauper  is  master  in  his  own  house. 

Galoux.  Very  well.  But  I  came  to  ask 
you  to  let  your  daughter  spend  the  day  to- 
morrow with  Lucie. 

RoussET.  Yes,  yes,  but  I  don't  kno'w  about 
tomorrow.     You  are  very  kind.     We'll  see. 

Galoux.  As  you  wish.  Good  day,  pere 
Rousset.  Good  day.  Mademoiselle.  Look,  pere 
Rousset,  how  the  poor  girl  is  weeping. 

Rousset.  I  see,  I  see.  But  if  you  think 
that  those  carryings  on  move  me  you  are  very 
much  mistaken.  Good  day.  Monsieur  Galoux. 
Good  day.  Mademoiselle  Galoux.  [Lucie  em- 
braces Blanchette  silently  and  leaves  with  her 
father.  Bonenfant  has  been  silently  drinking  his 
coffee] 

Bonenfant.  Ah  now!  That's  what  I  call  a 
good  cup  of  coffee. 

Rousset.  I'll  not  take  anything  for  it.  It's 
my  treat. 

Bonenfant.  Well,  then!  The  coffee  is  even 
better  than  I  thought.     I'll  see  you  again. 

Rousset.  And  now  you'll  not  be  going  to 
my  competitor's  any  more,  hein? 

Bonenfant.     No,  I'll  not  do  that. 

Rousset.  Good-bye.  [He  goes]  [To  Blanch- 
ette] Did  Monsieur  Galoux  bring  you  your 
teacher's  nomination? 

Blanchette.     No.     It  means  still  waiting. 


74  Brieux 

RoussET.  Always  the  same.  But  what  was 
he  doing  here? 

Blanchette.  He  came  to  invite  me  for  to- 
morrow. 

RoussET.  Tomorrow  you  can't  possibly  go. 
You  have  other  things  to  do  tomorrow. 

Blanchette.     What? 

RoussET.     The  last  two  weeks'  accounts. 

Blanchette.  I'll  finish  them  tonight  before 
retiring. 

Rousset.     You  had  better  not  work  at  night. 

Blanchette.  But  I  promised  them.  They 
expect  me. 

Rousset.     Well,  let  them  expect. 

Blanchette.  I  beg  you.  As  long  as  the 
accounts  will  be  ready  — 

Rousset.  But  why  do  you  always  like  to  be 
with  those  people  so  much?  Do  you  perhaps 
prefer  them  to  your  parents? 

Blanchette.     I  am  very  fond  of  Lucie. 

Rousset.     Go  and  ask  her  to  help  you  along. 

Blanchette.  If  I  needed  help  she  would 
give  it  to  me. 

Rousset.     You  really  believe  that! 

Blanchette.     I  am  sure  of  it. 

Rousset.  Very  well.  But  you'll  not  go. 
Besides,  from  tomorrow  on,  life  is  going  to  be 
different  for  you  here.  This  has  lasted  much 
too  long  already. 


Blanchette  15 

Mme.  Rousset.  Just  a  little  more  patience, 
father. 

Rousset.  I  have  already  had  too  much 
patience.  They  laughed  at  me.  They  prom- 
ised us  that  she  would  earn  something  as  soon 
as  she  had  her  degree,  and  we  worked  like  dogs 
so  that  she  could  get  it.  But  her  nomination 
is  not  forthcoming.  [To  Blanchette]  I'm  not 
rich  enough  to  let  you  keep  living  here  without 
doing  anything.  And  if  you  were  only  satisfied 
in  not  doing  anything.  But  then  you  go  and 
make  a  mess  of  things.  With  the  inventions  in 
your  books  you  make  me  lose  both  my  wheat 
and  the  price  of  the  chemicals,  which  I  was  fool 
enough  to  use.  Then  you  go  and  buy  a  lamp 
as  high  as  a  church  steeple  and  which  isn't  worth 
anything,  and  because  I  am  not  wrapped  in 
amazement  you  go  and  break  it  on  purpose. 
One  can  see  that  you  never  had  to  earn  any 
money.  And  that's  not  all.  Then  you  try  to 
stop  me  from  making  a  living  choosing  our 
customers  and  you  take  the  interest  of  strangers 
against  your  parents.  Ah,  they  never  brought 
me  up  like  that.  I  was  put  to  work  when  I 
was  ten  years  old.  I  was  not  as  smart  as  you, 
that's  true  enough,  and  I  didn't  laugh  at  my 
father  when  he  guarded  himself  against  light- 
ning by  methods  that  some  good  people  had  taught 
him  —  that's  true,  too  —  but  at  least  I  was  good 


76  Brieux 

for  something.  From  tomorrow  on  you  are  go- 
ing to  earn  your  daily  bread  or  you  get  none  to  eat. 

Blanchette.     How? 

RoussET.  You  will  get  up  at  five  o'clock 
and  come  down  here  and  wash  the  floor. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  what  will  I  do  then? 

RoussET.  You,  wife,  you  will  stay  in  bed. 
[To  Blanchette]  After  that,  you  will  stay  here, 
and  when  the  workingmen  come  before  they  go 
to  the  factory,  or  those  that  come  from  their 
night  duty,  you'll  serve  them. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Come  now,  Rousset,  there's 
no  place  for  a  young  girl  among  the  working- 
men  who  come  here  to  drink. 

Rousset.  It's  not  the  place  for  a  young 
girl,  isn't  it?  You  used  to  do  it.  Did  that 
stop  me  from  marrying  you?  But  to  con- 
tinue [To  Blanchette]  Then  yo^u'U  wash  the 
dishes.  After  supper  you'll  darn  your  stockings, 
because  I  forbid  you  to  read. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Listen  to  me,  Rousset. 

Rousset.  What  am  I  asking  her  to  do  that 
she  shouldn't  do,?  I'm  simply  telling  her  to  do 
the  things  that  a  tavern  keeper's  daughter 
should  do.  And  isn't  she  that  kind  of  a  girl? 
Besides,  there's  no  use  in  arguing,  because  she'll 
do  as  I  tell  her,  or  she'll  get  out. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  I  don't  want  her  ta 

Rousset.     What  did  you  say?     Who  has  the 


Blanchette  77 

right  to  say  **  I  want"  in  this  house?  Ah, 
what's  got  into  the  women  of  today!  I  don't 
like  these  kind  of  carryings  on.  I  am  the 
master,  do  you  hear,  the  master,  and  you  must 
obey  me. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Obey  you! 

RoussET.  And  you  be  quiet  too,  do  you 
hear?  And  both  of  you  be  calm,  or  look  out  for 
yourselves ! 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if 
you'd  strike  me.     It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time. 

Rousset.  [Striking  the  table  vnth  his  fist]  I've 
had  enough  now!  [To  Blanchette]  You'll  do 
what  I  tell  you,  or  you'll  get  out. 

Blanchette.     Very  well,  I'll  go. 

Rousset.  All  right,  good  night.  You'll  prob- 
ably find  more  to  eat  somewhere  else. 

Blanchette.  Haven't  you  reproached  me 
enough  about  the  food  I  eat  here?  But  never 
mind:     you'll  reproach  me  no  longer! 

Rousset.     I  advise  you  to  put  in  a  complaint. 

Blanchette.  Oh,  yes,  I'll  put  in  a  com- 
plaint, and  I'll  have  a  good  right  to  do  it. 
Didn't  you  torture  me  enough  just  today?  For 
your  birthday  I  bought  you  this  lamp,  hoping 
to  please  you.  You  maliciously  deform  it. 
Yes,  I  know  that  is  nothing,  but  every  day  a 
little  incident  like  that  only  goes  to  prove  that 
we    cannot    live    together.     Everything    that    I 


78  Brieux 

think  is  pretty  you  think  is  ugly.  All  that 
seems  evil  to  me  appears  good  in  your  eyes. 
You  and  I  will  never  understand  each  other. 
We  have  become  strangers.  You  have  become 
stubborn  in  your  routine  work  and  I  cannot 
even  comprehend  your  moral  code.  Then  I 
flattered  your  vanity  and  you  showed  me  off 
as  you  would  a  trained  dog.  Now  that's  not 
enough  for  you.  My  pride  hurts  you,  and  you 
try  on  every  occasion  to  humiliate  me.  You 
made  me  beg  that  roadmender's  pardon  be- 
cause Lucie  was  here,  and  when  Monsieur  Ga- 
loux  attempted  to  interpose  you  gave  me  one 
more  mean  thrust  by  using  some  vile  words. 
All  you  know  now  is  to  find  some  new  way  to  hurt 
me.  What  I  am  telling  you  is  true:  we  have 
become  strangers  for  one  another.  And  it's  best 
for  every  one  that  I  should  go,  and  I  am  going. 
I  am  going,  I  am  going,  I  am  going! 

RoussET.     Now  you've  said  it  just  four  times. 

Blanchette.  Do  you  want  me  to  go 
immediately? 

RoussET.  I  had  just  as  leave  that  you  did. 
You  have  pride,  but  you  also  have  a  lot  of 
laziness  in  you.  Here,  you  get  nourishment 
without  doing  anything,  which  means  that  you 
will  stay  here. 

Blanchette.  Come  now!  You  want  me  to! 
[Goes  left] 


Blanchette  79 

RoussET.     Where  is  she  going? 

Mme.  Rousset.  She's  probably  gone  to  get 
her  coat.     Will  you  let  her  go? 

Rousset.  You  really  believe  she's  in  earnest? 
Why  it's   all   play   acting,   it's  all  comedy. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  if  — 

Rousset.  Ah,  if  she  absolutely  wants  to 
go,  I  am  not  here  to  stop  her.  [Blanchette 
comes  in,  wearing  her  coat  and  hat] 

Blanchette.     Good-bye. 

Rousset.     Then  you're  serious? 

Blanchette.  Very.  [To  her  mother]  Good- 
bye, mamma.     [She  goes  to  embrace  her] 

Mme.  Rousset.  Come  now,  Blanchette, 
don't  be  silly.  Go  and  embrace  your  father 
and  the  matter  will   be  closed. 

Blanchette.  It's  useless.  It'd  be  all  the 
same   tomorrow   again. 

Mme,  Rousset.  [Becoming  angry]  Now  listen 
to  your  mother.     Go  to  him. 

Blanchette.     No  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Angry]  What  a  stubborn 
child!     Will  you  do  as  I  tell  you? 

Blanchette.  No  —  Listen,  mamma,  I  am 
sorry  to  leave  you,  but  you  cannot  stop  me  — 
and  besides,  you  do  not  know  how  to  love 
me. 

Mme.  Rousset  [Becoming  still  more  angry] 
You'll  not   obey   me? 


80  Brieux 

Blanchette.  No.  It's  useless.  My  mind 
is  made  up. 

Mme.  Rousset  [Furious]  Very  well!  You 
can  go  to  the  devil!  I  was  a  fool  to  bother 
with  you. 

Blanchette.     Let   me  embrace  you. 

Mme.  Rousset.  No.  Not  if  you  are  going 
to  leave   me. 

Rousset.    Is  this  nonsense  soon  going  to  beover.? 

Blanchette.     Yes.     Good-bye. 

Rousset.  Wait  a  bit!  Just  listen  a  moment 
what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  If  you  step  over 
that  threshold  you'll  never  come  back  over 
it  as  long  as  I  am  alive.  You  can  be  up  to 
your  neck  in  poverty  and  misery  but  there'll 
not  even  be  the  bit  of  bread  that  one  gives 
to  beggars  here  for  you.  You  understand 
perfectly  what  I  am  telling  you? 

Blanchette.  You  can  be  at  your  ease,  I 
would  rather  die  than  ask  for  help  from  you. 
Good-bye. 

Rousset.     Good   night.     [She  leaves] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Rushes  to  the  door  with  a 
cry]     Blanchette,  my  daughter!     Blanchette! 

Rousset  [Holding  her  by  the  wrist]  You  stay 
here,  mother  —  I  don't  know  that  person  who 
just  left  here  any  more.  [A  pause]  Now  go 
and  get  supper  ready. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 

[The  scene  is  the  same  as  before.  The  pictures 
of  Carnot  and  General  Boulanger  have  been  re- 
placed by  those  of  the  Tsar  and  Felix  Faure. 
November] 

[Mme.  Rousset  is  seated  at  the  left.  Rousset 
is  at  a  table  near  the  window.  Both  of  them  are 
resting  their  heads  on  their  elbows  and  seem  to  be 
reflecting  on  something] 

Rousset  [After  a  long  pause,  loithout  moving] 
I'm  going  to  see  how  my  beets  are  getting  along. 

Mme.  Rousset.     That's  right.     [Another  pause] 

Rousset.  It's  nine  o'clock,  and  there  goes 
the  postman. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Yes,  it's  nine  o'clock. 

Rousset.  Why  it  looks  as  if  he  were  coining 
in  here. 

Mme.  Rousset  [Quickly  rising]  Perhaps  he 
has  a  letter  for  us. 

Rousset.  For  us.  [In  a  hard  voice]  Who 
would  write  to  us? 

Mme.  Rousset.    But  — 

Rousset.  We've  paid  our  taxes,  and  this  isn't 
election  time. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  he's  really  coming 
here  — 

Rousset.     Ah  — 

8X 


82  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.     Oh,  Lord!     If  it  were  — 

RoussET.     Be   quiet!     [The  postman  enters] 

The  Postman.  Good  morning  to  you. 
It's  not  often  that  I  have  to  come  here.  [He 
looks  in  his  bag]  Here  —  it's  a  letter  for  your 
daughter.  [Reading  the  envelope]  Mademoiselle 
Elise  Rousset.      Has  she  come  back? 

Rousset.  No  —  but  you  can  leave  the 
letter  here;  we'll  forward  it. 

The  Postman.  Give  me  her  address.  Thus 
you'll  save  three  sous. 

Rousset.     Never  mind.      We  have  a  reason. 

The  Postman.     She  still  has  her  position? 

Rousset.     Yes. 

The  Postman.     Always  happy? 

Rousset.     Always. 

The  Postman.     Isn't  she  coming  back  soon? 

Rousset.     No. 

The  Postman.     Is  she  very  far  from  here? 

Rousset.     Yes,   very   far. 

The  Postman.     Well,  good  day  — 

Rousset.     Good-bye,  Monsieur  Caillard. 

Mme.   Rousset.     Au  revoir.     [He  leaves] 

Rousset.  [After  a  pause  goes  to  the  door] 
I'm  going  to  see  my  beets.  [When  he  is  on 
the  point  of  going  out  he  hesitates,  looks  at  Mme. 
Rousset,  who  is  still  holding  the  letter  betweeu 
her  fingers,  with  an  air  of  indifference]  Where's 
the  letter  from? 


Blanchette  83 

Mme.  Rousset.  It  says  on  the  envelope. 
The  Agricultor  s  Bookshop. 

Rousset.  Ah,  yes  —  that's  where  she 
bought  her  books  on  fertilizers. 

Mme.  Rousset.  When  I  think  that  she  has 
not  written  once  in  over  a  year! 

Rousset.     It's  better  that  way. 

Mme.  Rousset.  What  makes  me  feel  so 
badly  is  when  people  ask  for  news  of  her. 

Rousset.  All  you  have  to  say  is  yes  —  no 
—  just   like    I    do. 

Mme.  Rousset.  And  when  I  have  to  say 
that  she  is  well  when  perhaps  she  is  dead. 

Rousset.     You  have  to  invent  something  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  every  one  knows  the 
truth  around  here. 

Rousset.  Every  one!  Only  pere  Bonenfant 
and  the  Morillons.  And  if  they  know  it 
wasn't  us  that  told  'em. 

Mme.  Rousset.     They  guessed  it. 

Rousset.  It's  perfectly  possible  that  they 
know  —  in  fact,  I  know  that  they  know.  Only, 
since  I  have  never  let  them  perceive  that  I 
know,  they  have  to  pretend  that  they  don't 
know.  I  prefer  to  have  it  that  way.  And 
now  that's  enough.  I'm  going  to  see  my 
beets.     [He   leaves] 

[A  moment  later  Bonenfant  enters] 

Bonenfant.     How  do,   mere  Rousset? 


84  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.  Good  morning,  Bonenfant. 
Will  you  have  some  coffee? 

Bonenfant.  No  thanks,  not  now.  [He  looks 
at  her  smilingly]     Ha,  ha. 

Mme.  Rousset.     You're  happy  this  morning. 

Bonenfant.  Happy  as  a  young  girl.  And 
have  you  had  any  news  from  Blanchette? 

Mme.   Rousset.     Yes,  from  time  to  time. 

Bonenfant.  That's  nice.  I  too,  I've  had 
news  from  her. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Honestly?  Tell  me,  tell  me, 
please ! — 

Bonenfant.  But  it's  probably  the  same 
that  you've  had.  [Mme.  Rousset  hurriedly  gets 
a  glass,  which  she  fills  and  places  in  front  of 
Bonenfant] 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  know  very  well  that 
Rousset  is  not  telling  the  truth.  You  know 
very  well  that  we  do  not  know  where  she  is, 
that  we  don't  even  know  whether  she  is  still 
living. 

Bonenfant     Oh,  she's  still  living  — 

Mme.  Rousset.     And  in  good  health?  — 

Bonenfant.     Yes. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Sighs]  That's  all  I  care 
about.      Well   drink,   Bonenfant. 

Bonenfant.  What  would  you  say  if  you 
saw  her   back   here  one  of  these   days? 

Mme.    Rousset.     What  I   would  say  —  what 


Blanchette  85 

I  would  say?  —  I  don't  know,  but  I'd  be  very 
happy.     But  it's  not  possible. 

BoNENFANT.  With  railroads  people  come  and 
go  from  day  to  day. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  think  that  she'll  come 
back? 

BoNENFANT.     I'vc   heard   of    stranger    things. 

Mme.  Rousset.     You  think  that  — 

BoNENFANT.  I  wou't  say  yes,  and  I  won't 
say  no.  But  I've  been  told  that  it's  very 
probable. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Who  told  you  so? 

BoNENFANT.     Why,  I  had  a  letter 

Mme.  Rousset.     From  whom? 

BoNENFANT.  Oh,  from  a  friend  of  mine. 
[He  laughs] 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  know  very  well  who 
wrote  you  this  letter. 

BoNENFANT.  No  ouc  but  mysclf  knows  any- 
thing about  it. 

Mme.  Rousset.     You've  seen  Blanchette? 

BoNENFANT.  I?  That's  good.  You  think 
that  I've  just  seen  Blanchette. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Yes.  You  do  not  know 
how  to  read;  so  in  order  to  know  what  is  in 
the  letter  you  must  have  shown  it  to  some 
one,  and  since  you  yourself  say  that  no  one 
knows   about   it   but  yourself,   it   simply   shows 


86  Brieux 

that  there  never  was  a  letter  and  that  you 
must  have  seen  Blanchette. 

BoNENFANT.     Ah,   how  these  women  blab! 

Mme.  Rousset.     Tell  me,  am  I  right? 

BoNENFANT.  Let  me  drink  my  coflfee  first. 
[While  he  is  drinking  he  watches  her  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye] 

Mme.  Rousset.     Well? 

BoNENFANT.  Wait  until  I  have  finished. 
[He  rises  and  looks  out  of  the  window] 

Mme.  Rousset.     She  is  there? 

BoNENFANT.  Now  pcre  Rousset  has  gone 
behind  the  grove,  and  there's  no  more  danger. 
[He  goes  to  the  door] 

Mme.  Rousset.     She  is  there! 

BoNENFANT.  Don't  budge!  If  you  move 
you'll  not  see  her.  [Blanchette  appears  on  the 
threshold.  She  is  very  thin  and  poorly  dressed. 
Mme.  Rousset  cannot  move  from  astonishment. 
Bonenfant  goes  out,  closing   the  door  behind  him] 

Blanchette.  [Simply]  Mamma,  I  ask  your 
forgiveness. 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Without  hearing  her,  and 
still  motionless]     Is  it  possible!     Is  it  possible! 

Blanchette.  [Advancing]  Mamma,  I  ask 
your  forgiveness. 

Mme.   Rousset.     She  is  here  —  but  — 

Blanchette.  [Throwing  herself  into  her 
mother's  arms]     Mamma. 


Blanchette  87 

Mme.  Rousset.  Blanchette  —  [She  is  choked 
with  tears,  and  covers  Blanchette  with  kisses]  Is 
it  possible!  Is  it  possible!  She  is  back  again! 
She  is  back  again.     [Bonenfant  opens  the  door] 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Frightened]  My  God! 
Your  father  is  here!  [Bonenfant  appears  smil- 
ing] No!  it's  only  that  fool  of  a  roadmender. 
[Bonenfant  bows  and  goes  out  again]  How 
frightened  I  was! 

Blanchette.     He'll   not  forgive   me,   he  — 

Mme.   Rousset.     [Evadingly]     Why  yes  — 

Blanchette.     You  certainly  ought  to  know. 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  how  should  I? 

Blanchette.  When  you  spwke  of  me  he 
used  to  say  hard  things,  didn't  he? 

Mme.  Rousset.  No.  Only  it  will  be  better 
if  he  does  not  find  you  here  until  I  have 
prepared  him. 

Blanchette.  I  think  that  you  are  right. 
That  is  why  I  sent  Bonenfant  ahead. 

Bonenfant.  [Outside  the  window]  I'm  watch- 
ing for  him.  From  here  I  can  see  him  come 
out  of  the  grove. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  can  go  up  stairs  and 
wait.     I'll  call  you  then. 

Blanchette.  Yes,  mother.  If  he  only  does 
not  send   me  away! 

Mme.  Rousset.     He'll  not  do  that. 

Blanchette.     If  he  sent  me  away  it  would 


88  Brieux 

be  terrible,  for  you  see  mamma  I  was  at  the 
end  of  my  rope. 

Mme.  Rousset.  My  poor  Blanchette!  What 
have  you  done  since  you  left  home? 

Blanchette.  It  would  be  too  long  and 
sad  to  tell  you  all  at  once.  But  I'll  tell  you 
all,  little  by  little. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  must  be  hungry,  poor 
dear! 

Blanchette.     [Smiling]     I  am. 

Mme.  Rousset.  And  to  think  that  I  — 
[She  brings  her  some  bread  and  a  knife] 

Blanchette.  Thank  you.  What  good 
bread.      Does    Denis   still   bring   it. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Don't  eat  your  bread  dry. 
[She  brings  her  some  cheese]  Yes,  it's  still 
Denis.     He  has  a  new  wagon. 

Blanchette.  Ah!  And  I'm  sure  he  is 
proud  of  it. 

Mme.  Rousset.     No  one's  too  good  for  him. 

Blanchette.  And  pot  cheese!  The  kind 
that  father   makes  himself. 

Mme.    Rousset.     You  remember! 

Blanchette.  And  no  one  else  but  himself 
is  allowed  to  touch  it. 

Mme.  Rousset.  That's  right.  He  hasn't 
changed   at  all,  you  know. 

Blanchett^e.  I  was  hungry,  and  now  I 
cannot  eat  any  more;  I  am  so  happy.     [Look- 


Blanchette  89 

ing  at  her  mother]  Mother!  How  much  sad- 
ness I  have  already  brought  into  your  life, 
and  how  good  you  are  to  be  willing  to  forget 
it  all  — 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  eat,  eat  —  you  should 
have  had  some  bouillon  —  and  a  glass   of  cider! 

—  I  don't  think  of  anything.  We  have  some 
good  cider.  We  made  six  kegs  this  year. 
Taste  it.     It  is  good. 

Blanchette.     Very  good. 

Mme.  Rousset.  The  Morillons  wanted  us 
to  give  them  some. 

Blanchette.  The  Morillons.  They  are  still 
as  happy  as  ever? 

Mme.  Rousset.     Yes. 

BoNENFANT.  [Through  the  window]  Here  he 
comes. 

Mme,  Rousset.     Oh,  Lord !    Go  —  go  quickly 

—  I'll  call  you.  Take  this  with  you!  You 
haven't  eaten  anything.  But  yes  —  go  — 
[She  hurries  her  to  the  door  and  then  quickly 
sweeps  the  table.  Rousset  enters] 

Mme.  Rousset.  Well,  did  you  see  your 
beets? 

Rousset.     Yes. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Are  they  good? 

Rousset.  The  man  who  buys  them  will 
say  they  don't  weigh  anything.  Have  you 
seen  anybody  this  morning? 


90  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.     No  one. 

RoussET.     Ah! 

Mme.    Rousset.     Why   do  you   say   "ah." 

Rousset.  Because  —  because  some  one  told 
me  that  they  saw  a  stranger  from  the  distance. 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  haven't  seen  any  one. 

Rousset.  [Pointing  to  Bonenfanfs  glass]  Then 
you  have  been  drinking  alone,  eh? 

Mme.  Rousset.  Oh!  I  remember  now: 
pere  Bonenfant  was  here. 

Rousset.     You  see. 

Mme.  Rousset.  But  pere  Bonenfant  is  no 
one. 

Rousset.  But  that's  just  it,  for  it  was  with 
pere  Bonenfant  that  the  stranger  was  seen. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Perhaps  — 

Rousset.     Perhaps  what? 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  don't  know  — 

Rousset.  All  righti  Give  me  a  bite  to 
eat.  [During  the  following,  Mme.  Rousset  puts 
a  whole  loaf  of  bread  on  the  table,  as  well  as 
some  cheese  and  a  glass  of  cider.  Rousset  puts 
on  his  glasses]  What  did  you  do  with  that 
letter? 

Mme.  Rousset.  What  letter?  Ah,  yes! 
[Pointing  to  the  counter]     There  it  is. 

Rousset.     What's  in  it? 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  don't  know. 

Rousset.     [Taking  the  letter]     You  didn't  look 


Blanchette  91 

at  it.  —  You're  not  very  curious  —  or  perhaps 
you  didn't  have  the  time.  [He  opens  it  and 
reads  the  folloioing]  "We  beg  you  to  kindly 
remit  at  your  very  earliest  opportunity  the 
money  you  owe  us  from  the  books  that  were 
sent  to  you  almost  two  years  ago.  We  have 
called  your  attention  to  this  matter  several 
times.  The  books  in  question  are: — On  In- 
tensive Agriculture  —  On  the  Use  of  Agricul- 
tural Machinery  —  A  Treatise  on  Political 
Economy  —  The  Fortune  Made  by  the  Use  of 
Chemical  Fertilizers  —  The  Product  of  the  Soil.'* 

Mme.  Rousset.  Those  are  some  books  that 
she    bought. 

Rousset.     Yes,  yes,  I  remember. 

Mme.  Rousset.  It  was  for  us  that  she 
bought  them. 

Rousset.  For  us!  Did  you  read  them? 
Did  I  read  them? 

Mme.  Rousset.  For  our  benefit,  I  meant  to 
say. 

Rousset.  Yes,  to  spoil  things!  Our  benefit? 
To  spoil  things,  there's  no  other  way  to  put  it. 

Mme.  Rousset.     She  meant  to  do  good. 

Rousset.  She  meant  to  do  good  too,  I 
suppose,  when  she  broke  the  lamp  on  purpose. 
It  was  the  very  same  day.  It  was  the  day 
she  left !  [Looking  at  the  bill]  How  much !  How 
much!    How  much  do  you  make  it? 


92  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.  [  Timidly]  Thirty  -  two 
francs  — 

Rousset.  Thirty-two  francs!  Ah,  but  that's 
going  too  far! 

Mme.  Rousset.  I'll  go  and  see  —  they  may 
make  a  reduction.  They  may  have  made  a 
mistake. 

Rousset.  You'll  go  and  see  nothing!  It's 
not  us  that  orderted  them  —  them  —  them  — 
devil's  things.  Eh?  So  we  don't  owe  any- 
thing. Let  them  go  and  get  it  from  her! 
She  must  have  earned  enough  in  her  Paris. 
And  besides,  but  that's  enough!  [He  sits 
down  to  eat.  He  takes  a  knife  out  of  his  pocket, 
opens  it,  and  wipes  it  on  his  trousers.  He  sees 
the  whole  loaf  of  bread]     Why  cut  into  a  fresh  loaf? 

Mme.  Rousset.     But  — 

Rousset.     There  was  some  left. 

Mme.   Rousset.     I  assure  you  — 

Rousset.  But  I'm  positive.  It's  not  on 
account  of  the  bit  of  bread,  but  I  am  sure  that 
there  was  some  left. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You  are  right  —  there  was 
a  small  piece  left. 

Rousset.  You  see.  Well,  bring  it  to  me. 
There's  no  use  in  throwing  it  away. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Why,  you  see  — 

Rousset.     What? 

Mme.    Rousset.     I    remember    now,    I    gave 


Blanchette  93 

it    to    a  road-maker  —  he  was    a    poor    fellow. 

RoussET.     That's    all  right,  that's  all   right. 

Mme.  Rousset.  It  was  only  a  very  small 
piece. 

Rousset.  And  you  also  gave  your  road- 
maker  some  cheese? 

Mme.  Rousset.  He  had  a  little  child  with 
him. 

Rousset.  You  seem  to  be  very  charitable 
today.  [He  drinks.  While  Mme.  Rousset  has  her 
back  turned  he  picks  up  a  small  comb  from  the 
floor,  which  Blanchette  has  lost.  He  gazes  at  it 
and  then  puts  it  in  his  pocket]  What  did  Bonen- 
fant  have  to  say  for  himself? 

Mme.  Rousset.     Nothing. 

Rousset.  Nothing!  He  told  you  some- 
thing just  the  same. 

Mme.  .Rousset.     I  don't  remember  any  more. 

Rousset.     You  haven't  much  of  a  memory. 

Mme.  Rousset.     Who?    I? 

Rousset.  Oh,  no.  I  was  talking  about  the 
curate.     Now   tell   me,    mother. 

Mme.  Rousset.     What? 

Rousset.  Since  they  have  written  here  it 
must  be  that  they  thought  that  she  had  re- 
turned, eh? 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  don't  know  — 

Rousset.  Or  that  she  has  an  idea  of 
returning. 


94  Brieux 

Mme.  Rousset.  You're  always  looking  for 
underhand  dealings!  You'd  better  go  read 
your  paper. 

Rousset'.  Then  you  don't  remember.  [All 
of  a  sudden]  Some  one  just  was  walking 
upstairs.     Didn't  you  hear  it? 

Mme.  Rousset.     No  — 

Rousset.  I  assure  you  that  some  one  was 
walking.     There  is  somebody  here. 

Mme.  Rousset.  You're  crazy  —  or  you've 
had  too  much  to  drink.  That's  it,  you've  had 
too  much  to  drink.     I  heard  absolutely  nothing. 

Rousset.  [Taking  up  his  stick]  All  right. 
But  I'll  go  up  and  see.  And  thieves  had 
better  beware! 

Mme.  Rousset.  No!  —  I  do  not  want  you 
to!  — 

Rousset.  Ah!  Ah!  —  It's  that  wretch  of  a 
daughter  of  yours  who  is  up  there.  You  don't 
think  I  guessed  it? 

Mme.  Rousset.     No,  it's  not  she. 

Rousset.  Then  your  daughter  has  not  re- 
turned? 

Mme.  Rousset.     No. 

Rousset.     Well  then,  let  me  go  up. 

Mme.  Rousset.  I  don't  want  you  to.  I 
guess  you  can  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
something.  I've  just  come  down,  and  there's 
no  one  up  there. 


Blanchette  95 

RoussET.     Then  your  daughter  is   not  here? 

Mme.  Rousset.     No. 

RoussET.     Then  your  daughter  is   not   here? 

Mme.  Rousset.     No. 

Rousset.  Well  then,  to  whom  does  this 
comb  belong  that  I  have  just  found?  It  cer- 
tainly is  not  yours.  You  are  sure  that  your 
daughter  is  not  here? 

Mme.  Rousset.     I  am  quite  sure. 

Rousset.  Listen,  listen  —  now  do  you  hear 
some  one  walking?  Now  —  they  are  coming 
down  the  stairs.      Liar  that  you  are! 

Mme.  Rousset.     Oh,   heavens! 

Rousset.  Do  you  hear.  She  is  here,  I 
say,  she  is  here.  Ha,  there  she  is.  [Blanchette 
appears] 

Blanchette.  Yes,  it  is  I.  Now  do  what 
you  want  with  me. 

Rousset.  [In  a  hard  voice]  Get  out  of  here, 
do  you  understand! 

Blanchette.  Father,  are  you  really  going 
to  send  me  away? 

Rousset.     Yes. 

Blanchette.  You  ought  to  have  pity  on 
me.     Ah,  yes,  you  ought  to  have  pity  on  me. 

Rousset.  No  nonsense  now!  What  did  I 
tell  you  when  you  said  that  you  were  going? 

Blanchette.  If  I  came  back  it  was  only 
because  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 


96  Brieux 

RoussET.     You  haven't   much   courage! 

Blanchette.  If  that  were  true  I  would  have 
suffered  less. 

RoussET.  No,  it's  true,  you  haven't  much 
courage.  After  what  you  told  me  when  you 
were  leaving  I  would  have  rather  drowned  myself 
than  come  back  here;  especially  after  what  I 
said  to  you  —  hard  as  it  was  for  me  to  do  so. 
When  one  has  courage  one  does  not  starve. 

Blanchette.  That's  what  I  thought  when 
I  left. 

RoussET.     Well? 

Blanchette.     Well,  it  is  not  so. 

RoussET.  There's  no  end  of  work  to  be 
had  in  Paris. 

Blanchette.     Nor  workmen  either. 

Rousset.  You  were  afraid  of  spoiling  your 
dainty  fingers  doing  sewing,  I  suppose! 

Blanchette.  No,  not  that!  But  no  one 
wanted  me. 

Rousset.     Nonsense ! 

Blanchette.  I  knew  how  to  embroider  but 
I  could  not  sew.  However  I  sewed  beads  on 
lace  and  earned  twenty  sous,  working  twelve 
hours. 

Rousset.     One  can  live  on  that. 

Blanchette.     But  there  is  the  dull  season. 

Rousset.  All  that  is  none  of  my  affairs. 
What   did   I  tell   when  you  left?     What  did  I 


Blanchette  97 

say?     I  don't  know  you  any   more.     Now  get 
out. 

Mme.  Rousset.  Rousset,  I  implore  you, 
Rousset! 

Rousset.  Come,  come!  Do  you  want  to 
break  my  ears?     I  warned  her  of  all  this. 

Blanchette.  Then  you  are  going  to  send 
me  away? 

Rousset.  How  many  times  do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  so? 

Blanchette.  You  want  to  send  me  away 
without  knowing  whether  I  may  not  die  of 
starvation  on  your  doorstep? 

Rousset.  Go  back  from  where  you  came 
from.  You  have  existed  up  to  now,  haven't 
you?  Well,  go  back  and  do  again  what  you 
were  doing. 

Blanchette.  But  lately  I  haven't  even  had 
enough  to  eat.  If  you  only  knew  what  it 
was  for  a  woman  to  work  in  Paris!  There  are 
ten  applicants  for  a  day's  work,  and  in  this 
way  one  stops  the  other  from  earning  a  living 
without  being  able  to  live  one's  self.  If  you 
only  knew  how  one  is  on  the  track  of  hand 
written  billboards  which  advertise  for  unskilled 
workmen.  And  if  you  realized  how  one  is 
exploited!  There  are  people  who  simply  wait 
until  you  have  fallen  to  the  very  poorest 
state   and    then    propose    the    most    abominable 


98  Brieux 

things  to  you;  and  they  laugh  at  you  when 
you  refuse,  and  say  to  you:  "If  you  had 
rather  starve  in  the  gutter  that  is  your  affair." 
I  have  seen  all  that,  I  have  gone  through  all 
that.  In  the  end  I  understood  that  it  was 
impossible,  and  I  have  returned  because  com-, 
ing  back  to  you  was  the  only  decent  and 
courageous  thing  left  for  me  to  do.  No,  I 
do  not  want  to  begin  it  all  over  again.  I  could 
not  if  I  wanted  to.  [She  kneels]  Father,  I 
ask  your  forgiveness!  I  promise  that  you  will 
never  have  any  reason  to  find  fault  with  me 
again.  I  promise  never  to  be  proud  again  and 
always  to  obey  you.  Father,  I  ask  your  for- 
giveness. Don't  throw  me  back  on  to  the 
street,  '  I  implore  you.  I  cannot  earn  my 
daily  bread,  so  what  could  I  do  if  you  sent 
me  away? 

RoussET.  You  can  go  to  Monsieur  Galoux. 
He  promised  to  engage  you  to  give  your 
friend  Lucie  lessons,  your  great  friend  — 

Blanchette.  Monsieur  Galoux  kept  his 
promise. 

RoussET.     And  you  did  not  stay  there? 

Blanchette.     No. 

RoussET.  But  that  was  the  place  for  you. 
You  did  not  have  to  soil  your  hands,  and 
that   must   have   pleased   you.     I   suppose  you 


Blanchette  99 

went  and  did  something  foolish  and  they  made 
you  get  out. 

Blanchette.     No,  I  did  nothing  wrong. 

RoussET.  If  you  did  nothing  wrong  they 
could  not  have  sent  you  away. 

Blanchette.     You  believe  that? 

RoussET.     Of  course! 

Blanchette.  I  had  hardly  entered  Monsieur 
Galoux's  services  when  his  son.  Monsieur 
George,  wanted  to  make  me  his  mistress. 
Then  he  spoke  to  me  of  marriage.  It  was  then 
that  they  sent  me  away.  Oh,  they  paid  me 
a  lot  of  compliments,  but  they  gave  me  to 
understand  that  virtue  and  instruction  could 
not  take  the  place  of  a  dowry,  and  they  offered 
me  a  sum  of  money  which  I  refused. 

Rousset.  Ah!  Always  these  ideas  of 
grandeur. 

Blanchette.  How  I  wept  and  suffered  from 
shame!  But  listen.  From  the  Galoux's  I  went 
into  another  place,  but  I  had  to  leave  there 
also.  In  that  place  it  was  the  mother  who 
sent  me  away,  —  yes,  the  mother, —  because 
in  taking  a  companion  for  her  daughter,  she 
meant,  at  the  same  time,  to  have  a  teacher 
free  from  dangers.  And  after  that?  —  a  very 
respectable  old  gentleman  had  lost  a  daughter 
of  just  my  age  and  whom  he  said  I  resembled. 
He    wanted    me    to    fill    her    place.     Ah,    that 


100  Brieux 

ignoble  man!  When  I  left,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders:  my  frankness  made  him  pity  me. 
That  poor,  inconsolable  father!  In  another 
house  it  was  the  husband  — 

RoussET.  You  should  have  found  a  position 
with  a  single  woman. 

Blanchette.  That  is  just  what  I  did,  I 
was  all  right  there,  and  I  scrubbed  the  floor 
as  you  asked  me  to  do.  But  I  got  nothing  to 
eat.  After  all,  I  almost  regret  now  that  I 
did  not  imitate  other  girls  I  met,  who  were 
in  just  my  position.  They  took  the  primrose 
path.  And  they  are  not  to  be  pitied  for  it; 
no,  on  the  contrary.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth.  Instruction  does  not  teach 
virtue.  There  are  enough  miserable  creatures 
who  can  roll  up  their  teachers'  degrees  in  their 
prostitute  licenses. 

RoussET.  Then  it  is  wrong  to  educate  one's 
children? 

Blanchette.  No.  But  one  should  show  them 
how  to  make  use  of  their  education,  and  not  try  to 
make  government  oflScials  of  them. 

Rousset.  Be  quiet,  some  one  is  coming. 
[Bonenfant  enters] 

Bonenfant.     How   do   you  do  one   and    all. 
[Sitting  down]     I'd  like  a  cup   of  coffee.     [Pre- 
tending to  notice  Blanchette  for  the  first  time] 
Why,  Blanchette! 


Blanchette  101 

RoussET.  She  dropped  in  to  pay  us  a  little 
visit. 

BoNENFANT.  Ah!  Well,  I'll  take  a  cup  of 
coffee  just  the  same.  [Mme.  Rousset  is  about 
to  get  the  things,  but  Blanchette  stops  her] 

Blanchette.  [L  ooking  at  her  father,  who 
himself  is  watching  her  from  the  corner  of  his 
eye]  But  —  I'll  get  everything,  mamma.  Give 
me  your  apron.  [She  waits  on  Bonenfant.  Not 
a  word  is  spoken.  Rousset  watches  her  with 
surprise,  and  is  a  little  touched] 

Bonenfant.  [After  having  drunk]  Ah !  — 
[He  gives  Blanchette  a  coin  which  she  gives  to 
her  mother.  She  clears  the  table.  Morillon 
and  Auguste  enter] 

Morillon.  How  do  you  do,  pere  Rousset. 
[To  Blanchette]  You  back  again.  Miss 
Blanchette?  Ah!  —  I  am  very  happy  to  see 
you,  very  happy  —  and  I  am  not  the  only 
one  —  Eh,  Auguste? 

Rousset.     Bless  my  soul! 

Morillon.     Well,   pere   Rousset? 

Rousset.     What? 

Morillon.  Come  with  me  a  bit;  I  have 
something  to  tell  you. 

Rousset.  Oh,  I  can't.  I  haven't  the  time 
now. 

Morillon.     It's  about  the  land. 

Rousset.     About   that   David   land? 


LIBRARY 

STATE   TEACHERS    COLL.EOE 
SANTA    BARBARA.    CALIFORNIA 


102  Brieux 

MoRiLLON.  Well,  come  on,  come  on.  [To 
the  rest]  We'll  be  back  soon.  [He  drags  Rous- 
set  out  with  him.  Auguste  remains  standing. 
He  is  visibly  embarrassed.] 

Blanchette.     Won't  you  sit  down? 

Mme.  Rousset.  [Looks  at  them.  Then  she 
says]  Excuse  me  if  I  leave  you  alone  for  a 
few   minutes.     I'll   come   back.    [She  leaves] 

Auguste.  They  told  us  that  you  had  re- 
turned, and  as  my  father  and  I  were  passing 
by  we  thought  we  would  drop  in  and  see  how 
you   were. 

Blanchette.     It  was  very  kind  of  you. 

Auguste.     Have  you  come  back  now  to  stay? 

Blanchette.     No,   I'm  going  away  again. 

Auguste.      [Disconcerted]      Ah !  —  ah !    you  — 

Blanchette.     Yes. 

Auguste.     You  like  Paris  better? 

Blanchette.  Oh,  heavens,  no!  You  have  no 
idea  how  I  dread  Paris. 

Auguste.  But  —  you  have  ties  that  bind  you 
there! 

Blanchette.     None  at  all. 

Auguste.  I  —  I've  been  waiting  —  one  of 
these  days  —  to  hear  of  your  marriage. 

Blanchette.     With  whom,  pray  tell  me? 

Auguste.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  are  — 
you  are  —  I  don't  know  —  nice  enough  —  one 
would   have   thought  —  that   down   there   there 


Blanchette  103 

would  have  been  fellows   who  —  I  really  don't 
know  — 

Blanchette.  Who  wanted  me?  No,  there 
were  none  —  at  least  those  who  did  were  such 
miserable  rascals  that  I  kept  them  away  from 
me. 

AuGUSTE.  Really  —  you  —  then  you  need 
not  return. 

Blanchette.  Yes.  My  father  won't  have 
me  here. 

AuGUSTE.  What  I  wanted  to  say  was  that 
no  one  is  waiting  for  you  —  you  are  not  — 

Blanchette.     There  is  no  one. 

AuGUSTE.  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that. 
Then  it's  really  true?  —  it's  really  true  that 
you  have  no  friend  waiting  for  you?  —  and 
you  — 

Blanchette.  And  I  never  had  any  —  I 
swear  it  to  you.  Oh,  I  was  unhappy  —  so 
unhappy. 

Auguste.  And  I  am  so  glad !  —  I  don't 
think  you  can  realize  just  how  happy  I  am. 
And  now  I  have  some  things  to  tell  you. 

Blanchette.     Go  on. 

Auguste.  We  have  had  to  enlarge  our 
workshop  —  for  we  now  have  to  employ  three 
workmen.  And  during  harvest  we  have  had  as 
many  as  five.  We  are  very  happy.  We  make 
ten,   twelve,   and   even  fifteen  francs   a  day  — 


104  Brieux 

and  since  you  left  I  have  laid  four  hundred 
francs  aside.  My  father  talks  of  retiring. 
Listen  to  me,  listen  to  me.  We  have  had 
another  story  built  with  a  large  window  — 
and  — [Pause] 

Blanchette.     Why  are  you  telling  me  — 

AuGUSTE.  [Suddenly]  Well !  —  It's  clear 
enough! — you  —  I  —  I  want  to  ask  you  to 
marry  me. 

Blanchette.     [Very  much  moved]     Auguste  — 

AuGUSTE.  Tell  me,  is  it  yes  or  no?  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you. 

Blanchette.  Ah,  what  a  truly  good  boy 
you  are! 

Auguste.     Then  it's  —  yes? 

[After  a  pause  Blanchette  throws  herself  into  his 
arms] 

Auguste.  Then  it's  yes!  Well,  you  can 
pride  yourself  on  having  made  some  one  happy. 
—  Good  Lord!  You'll  see  whether  I'll  make  a 
good  husband  or  not.  You'll  see!  You'll 
not  go  back  on  your  word,  will  you? 
My,  but  I  am  a  lucky  fellow!  —  [He  laughs]  But 
now  let  me  kiss  you  too! 

[Bonenfant  enters] 

BoNENFANT.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  [He 
is  about  to  leave] 

Auguste.    You're  back  again,  pere  Bonenfant? 


Blanchette  105 

BoNENFANT.  I  returned  because  I  forgot  to 
have  my  drink  after  my  coffee. 

Blanchette.  [Gay]  I'll  give  you  your  drink, 
pere  Bonenfant, 

AuGUSTE.     And  a  lump  of  sugar  too? 

[Rousset  and  Morillon  enter  at  rear] 

Bonenfant.     I  am  served  like  a  prince ! 

[Auguste  is  standing  next  to  the  table.  Blanchette, 
at  his  side;  her  hand  is  on  his  shoulder,  Both  of 
them  are  very  happy] 

Blanchette.     Is  it  good? 

Bonenfant.  Very  good.  [He  looks  at  them 
and  laughs.  Then  Auguste  laughs,  and  finally 
Blanchette  joins  in] 

Bonenfant.  I  bet  you're  not  going  to  invite 
me  to  the  wedding! 

Blanchette  and  Auguste.  But  of  course  we 
will! 

Morillon.  [Stepping  up]  That  is  if  I  give 
my  consent !  —  and  I  do  that  with  all  my  heart. 

[Bonenfant  is  about  to  leave  when  he  meets  Rousset 
at  the  door] 

Bonenfant.  Well,  so  Blanchette  is  going 
again? 

Rousset.  We'll  see.  After  one  goes  to  the 
trouble  of  bringing  up  children  they  always 
end  by  leaving  their  home  for  the  home  of 
another. 

[Mme.  Rousset  bursts  into  tears.     Blanchette  and 


106  Brieux 

Auguste  go  to  her,  and  Blanchette  takes  her  mother 
in  her  arms] 

Blanchette.     Mother! 

Mme.  Rousset.     It's  because  I  am  so  happy ! 

RoussET.  And  am  I  a  stranger  here? 
Won't  any  one  embrace  me? 

[Blanchette  throws  herself  into  her  father's  arms] 

CURTAIN 


THE  ESCAPE 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Dr.  Bertrt A  Prominent  Physician. 

Jean  Belmont His  Stepson. 

Monsieur  Bertry His  Brother. 

Lucienne  Bertry Monsieur  Bertry's  Daughter. 

Dr.  La  Belx,euse Dr.  Bertry's  Secretary. 

Paul  de  Maucour Lucienne's  Former  Fiance. 

Alice  de  Maucour His  Wife. 

Monsieur  Longuyon A  Friend  of  the  Bertrys. 

Madame  Longxtton His  Wife. 

Madame  de  Cattenieres A  Friend  of  the  Bertrys. 

Dr.  Richon A  Physician  from  Ebreville. 

Dr.  Morienval A  Young  Parisian  Physician. 

Pere  Guernoche A  Shepherd  from  Ebreville. 

RosAUE Maid  at  the  Bertrys. 

Justin Her  Husband. 

Segard A  Farmer  at  Ebreville. 

A  Man  —  A  Servant  —  A  Farmer 

Time  —  The  Present.  Place  —  Paris  and  Ebreville. 


THE  ESCAPE 

ACT  I. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Dr.  Bertry,  a  man  of 
sixty   years,   is   discovered  correcting   proof. 

The  Doctor.  This  will  have  to  be  printed 
as  soon  as  possible.  No  mistakes!  [He  re- 
reads aloud]  "  Dr.  Bertry,  a  member  of  the 
academy  of  medicine,  professeur  libre  of  neuro- 
pathology, will  again  give  his  lectures  at  the 
Ecole  Pratique  beginning  on  the  third  of  Oc- 
tober." It  seems  to  me  that  my  name  and 
title  could  be  set  in  larger  type.  I  don't  know 
that  it  can  be  read  easily  enough  as  it  is. 
[He  rises  and  gives  the  placard  to  the  servant. 
Then  he  retires  a  few  steps  in  order  to  judge 
the  effect]  Will  you  hold  it,  so  that  I  can  see 
it  better?  That's  it!  It'll  have  to  be  set  in 
a  little  larger  type.  [He  underlines  it  in  blue 
pencil]  Don't  let  them  forget  that!  [He  strikes 
a  bell] 

The  Man.  I'll  see  that  it  is  all  right, 
monsieur.     [He  leaves] 

[Rosalie  enters.  She  is  about  fifty  years  old, 
and  very   sad.] 

Rosalie.     Did  you  ring,  doctor.^ 


110  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  Take  these  notes  to 
Mademoiselle  Lucienne>  and  tell  her  that  I 
should  like  to  have  them  copied.  Is  there  any 
one  in  the  waiting  room.'' 

Rosalie.     Dr.  La  Belleuse  is  there,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.     Tell  him  to  come  in. 

Rosalie.  Haven't  you  anything  to  tell  me 
about  Justin? 

The  Doctor.  My  poor  Rosalie,  I  have 
begged  you  to  have  courage.  There  is  no  hope 
for  your  husband.  Science,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
can  do  nothing  for  him.  Tell  Doctor  La  Belleuse 
to    come    in. 

[She  goes  out  to  the  waiting  room  and  ushers 
La  Belleuse  in.  He  is  a  man  of  about  thirty- 
five,  good  looking  but  insipid.  He  wears  several 
foreign  orders] 

The  Doctor.  Excuse  me,  my  friend,  for 
receiving  you  here  today,  but  my  office  is 
littered  with  trunks  and  packages.  We  have 
had  a  shock.  My  step-son  owns  a  lot  of  land 
at  fibreville  and  the  manager  he  has  put  in 
charge  there  is  stealing  from  him.  Good  Dr. 
Richon,  the  physician  at  fibreville,  came  to 
Paris  this  morning  to  tell  us  about  it.  And  so 
we  are  leaving  earlier  than  we  intended  to. 
But  let  us  get  down  to  business.  Besides,  we 
are  in  a  hurry,  as  my  niece  expects  some 
callers    here. 


The  Escape  111 

La  Belleuse,  [Opening  a  portfolio]  Here 
you    are ! 

The  Doctor.     What  have  you  there? 

La  Belleuse.  These  are  the  proofs  of  your 
biography.  I  have  done  the  work,  I  assure 
you,  with  the  greatest  care. 

The    Doctor.    Ah!     Let's    see. 

La  Belleuse.     Your  picture  here. 

The   Doctor.     Do   I   look  like  that? 

La  Belleuse.  Yes  and  no.  There  is  some- 
thing lacking. 

The  Doctor.  Ah  yes!  it's  imperceptible. 
Well,  have  you  any  news? 

La   Belleuse.     About? 

The    Doctor.    Yes. 

La  Belleuse.  You  were  told  right  —  there 
are  three  crosses  of  the  commander. 

The  Doctor.  We  shall  have  to  find  out, 
then,  to  which  ministry  they  belong.  If  they 
come  under  the  department  of  public  instruc- 
tion we  must  bring  more  into  the  foreground  the 
work  I  did  as  a  professor;  if  they  come  under 
the  department  of  the  interior,  we  will  merely 
mention  my  other  official  titles.  But  we  will 
talk  of  my  affairs  later!  Let  us  now  clear  up 
the  things  of  secondary  importance.  Do  you 
want   to   ask   my   advice  about  anything? 

La    Belleuse.     Yes,    dear    master.     I    have 


112  Brieux 

something  that  bothers  me:  I  have  a  patient 
whom    I    cannot   cure. 

The   Doctor.     Such   things   will   happen. 

La  Belleuse.  Evidently,  but  —  he  wants 
to    go   to    Lourdes. 

The  Doctor.     Let   him   go. 

La  Belleuse.  [Astonished]  You  don't  mean 
it  —  suppose  he  gets  cured? 

The  Doctor.  You  can  always  find  some 
sort    of    scientific    explanation. 

La   Belleuse.     Suggestion? 

The  Doctor.  Of  course!  —  that  answers 
almost   every   question.     Now   what   else? 

La  Belleuse.  Then  I  have  Probard  —  a 
client  about  whom  I  have  already  spoken  to 
you.     He  hasn't   more  than  a  week  to  live. 

The  Doctor.  Call  in  another  doctor.  That 
will  free  you  from  the  responsibility. 

La  Belleuse.  But  —  Probard  is  a  man  of 
some    standing. 

The  Doctor.  Then  call  in  two  doctors  for 
consultation. 

La  Belleuse.  Very  well  —  then,  at  the 
salle  Saint  Therese,  number  four  is  still  in  the 
same    condition. 

The    Doctor.     Have   you    tried    everything? 

La    Belleuse.     Everything. 

The   Doctor.     Even  to   doing   nothing? 


The  Escape  113 

La  Belleuse.  Even  that.  Not  one  of 
us  can  tell  what  is  the  matter  with  her. 

The  Doctor.  [Sighs]  Then  we  shall  not 
know  until  after  the  autopsy.  So  we  must 
wait! 

La    Belleuse.     And    stop    all    treatment? 

The  Doctor.  No.  One  must  never  have 
the  appearance  of  not  being  interested.  That 
would  be  a  mistake.  An  unpardonable  mistake. 
Do   something,   no   matter   what.     Is   that   all? 

La  Belleuse.  Yes,  I  think  that  is  every- 
thing. 

The  Doctor.  Well,  now  let  us  get  down  to 
my  business.  [La  Belleuse  sits  down]  Do 
you  know  the  number  of  patients  who  were 
treated  at  the  clinic? 

La  Belleuse.  There  were  not  so  many  pa- 
tients as  last  year. 

The  Doctor.  In  that  case  let  us  not  talk 
about  it  any  longer. 

La  Belleuse.     That  is  what  I  thought. 

The  Doctor.  Now  about  my  biography! 
—  Let's  see !  [He  reads  a  moment  in  a  low 
voice]  Isn't  this  a  bit  too  strong:  "  Dr. 
Bertry  is  one  of  the  medical  celebrities  of  the 
century!!!" 

La  Belleuse.  [Taking  a  pen]  Well  —  we 
can  put  "of  the  last  twenty  years." 

The   Doctor.     [Stopping  him]     Never   mind! 


114  Brieux 

I'll   leave   myself   in   your   hands;     you   under- 
stand this  sort  of  thing  better  than  I  do. 

La  Belleuse.  Then  shall  we  say,  "of  the 
last   twenty   years"? 

The  Doctor.  [Stopping  him  again]  Wait! 
—  it's  for  you  to  decide.  Bah !  let  it  go  as  it 
is.  Ah,  but  we'll  have  to  modify  this  passage: 
"Dr.  Bertry's  fame  dates  from  1866.  At  that 
time  a  small  doctor  in  Compiegne,  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  care  for  and  cure  one  of  the 
ladies  of  the  Court,  Madame  de  X.  This 
marvelous  cure  brought  to  him  the  admiration 
and  friendship  of  the  emperor,  who  gave  him 
the  title  of,"  etc. 

La  Belleuse.     But  isn't  that  correct? 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  But  the  form  is  bad. 
Write  [he  walks  up  and  down  while  he  dictates 
as  follows]:  "In  1866,  Dr.  Bertry,  although  he 
was  living  in  Compiegne,  had  already  ac- 
quired such  renown  that  a  lady  of  the  Court  — 
of  the  imperial  Court  —  Madame  de  X  —  had 
recourse  to  his  treatment.  Dr.  Bertry  cured 
her,  and  the  emperor,  hearing  of  this  marvelous 
cure  —  this  marvelous  cure,  had  him  called  to 
Paris.  The  —  celebrated  doctor,"  —  it's  all  right 
to  say  celebrated  doctor,  isn't  it?  —  "  although 
it  was  an  act  which  did  violence  to  his  politi- 
cal opinions,  went  where  duty  called  him  — 
[Bertry  has  now  come  close  to  La  Belleuse,  and 


The  Escape  115 

reads  over  his  shoulders]  Have  you  all  that? 
Good!  "During  the  epidemic  he  exposed  his 
life  to  all  sorts  of  dangers  a  thousand  times, 
in  company  with  Dr.  Miron."  But  no!  Erase: 
"in  company  with  Dr.  Miron."  That  would 
look  too  much  like  an  advertisement.  [La 
Belleuse    erases    it] 

La  Belleuse.  The  rest  is  devoted  to  your 
work  on  heredity. 

The  Doctor.  Ah!  I  was  wondering  whether 
you  had  forgotten  that.     Well,   read  it! 

La  Belleuse.  [Reading]  "But  what,  above 
all,  constitutes  the  work  of  Dr.  Bertry  are  his 
studies  on  heredity.  Going  farther  than  Lucas, 
Morel,  and  Galton,  Bertry  has  shown  the  in- 
vincible power  of  these  laws,  henceforth  im- 
mutable. His  various  works  on  this  subject 
represent  the  fruits  of  thirty  years  of  unin- 
terrupted   toil." 

The  Doctor.  [Who  has  again  come  up  to  La 
Belleuse]  Put  in  there :  "  Twelve  volumes  pub- 
lished by  Alcan — "  [La  Belleuse  writes]  Do 
you  mention  my  extensive  correspondence  with 
the   Academy? 

La  Belleuse.     Yes. 

The  Doctor.     And  with  the  newspapers? 

La   Belleuse.     No. 

The  Doctor.  Write:  "Even  the  political 
organs    have    spoken,    in    the    most    eulogistic 


116  Brieux 

manner,  of  the  discoveries  made  by  this  savant, 
for  Dr.  Bertry  has  never  scorned  interviews." 
Wait  —  that  sentence  might  not  be  interpreted 
correctly  —  yes  —  add:  "  And  this,  not  be- 
cause he  is  seeking  vulgar  advertisement,  of 
which  he  has  the  most  abject  horror,  but  only 
because  of  his  desire  to  spread  the  truth!" 
What  next.? 

La  Belleuse.  [Reading]  "Dr.  Bertry  has 
made  heredity  his  own  study;  he  has  collected 
on  this  subject  the  most  numerous  and  most 
convincing  observations.  Where  his  illustrious 
predecessors  have  made  only  timid  suppositions, 
he  has  formulated  principles,  established  certi- 
tudes." 

The  Doctor.     That  is  very  good. 

La  Belleuse.     The  rest  has  to  do  — 

The  Doctor.  Let's  see  it.  [He  reads;  then 
laughs]  Ha,  ha,  my  young  friend,  you  have  not 
forgotten    yourself. 

La   Belleuse.     [Rises,  blushing]     I? 

The  Doctor.  Yes,  you!  [Reading]  "With 
the  co-operation  of  the  young  and  active  Dr. 
La  Belleuse,  his  devoted  secretary  and  collab- 
orator —  " 

La   Belleuse.     I   thought  — 

The  Doctor.  That's  all  right.  You'd  like 
something,    eh? 

La     Belleuse.     Heavens!     [Pointing    to     his 


The  Escape  117 

buttonhole]  I  have,  you  know,  nothing  but  for- 
eign orders.  And  I  thought  that  the  same 
promotion  which  gave  the  cravate  rouge  to  the 
master,  might  perhaps  give  the  humble  disciple 
a  bit  of  ribbon  —  of  the  same  color. 

The   Doctor.     We'll   see. 

La  Belleuse.  I  am  preparing  some  observa- 
tions on  heredity,  based  on  your  theories. 
You  haven't  any  new  ones,  have  you? 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  I  have  just  sent  three 
notes  to  my  niece  for  her  to  copy.  Observa- 
tions!    There's   no   lack   of   them! 

La  Belleuse.  Of  course,  it  would  be  foolish 
indeed  still  to  doubt,  after  your  admirable 
studies  —  and  according  to  Auguste  Comte, 
the  dead  have  more  influence  on  us  than  the 
living. 

The  Doctor.  That  is  true.  Then  you  will 
attend  to  all  these  little  details.  Write  to  me, 
and  I  will  try  to  get  something  for  you. 

La    Belleuse.     Dear    master! 

The  Doctor  [Carelessly]  That  will  make  a 
good  topic  with  which  to  start  my  talk  with 
the  minister  —  ah!  tell  me?  Are  you  going 
at  once  to  find  out  about  the  conferring  of  the 
crosses? 

La  Belleuse.  I'll  go  and  come  back  im- 
mediately. 

The     Doctor.     That's     right.     [La     Belleuse 


118  Brieux 

goes  out]     There's  a  nice  chap  for  you! 

[Bertry  arranges  the  papers  that  are  lying  about, 
then  looks  at  himself  in  the  mirror  above  the 
fireplace,  at  the  left.  He  looks  at  his  tongue,  and 
feels  his  pulse.  He  rings  the  bell,  and  then  sits 
down  on  the  couch.  He  ponders  a  moment  and 
sighs  deeply.  He  rings  again.  Rosalie  ap- 
pears.] 

The  Doctor.  My  medicine.  [Rosalie  goes] 
And  to  think  that  I  teach  how  to  cure  others! 

Rosalie.  [Returning  with  a  glass  on  a  tray] 
You  are  not  feeling  any  better,  monsieur? 

The  Doctor.  [With  ill-humor]  Yes  I  am. 
And  since  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  want 
any  one  to  speak  about  my  health  —  you  simply 
shout  it  out  —  you  want  the  whole  world  to 
know  about  it.  You  and  my  brother  are  the 
only  ones  who  know  about  my  illness,  and  I  do 
not  want  others.  .  .  .  [He  drinks]  Yes,  I  had 
a  bad  night,  there.     Now  are  you  satisfied? 

Rosalie.     [Apologizing]     But,    monsieur  — 

The  Doctor.  That's  all  right.  Did  you 
take   my   notes   to   Mademoiselle   Lucienne? 

Rosalie.  Yes,  monsieur.  She  has  finished  the 
work   that   you   gave   her   yesterday,    monsieur. 

The  Doctor.     That's  good! 

Rosalie.  Could  I  have  a  word  with  you, 
monsieur,    without    disturbing    you? 

The   Doctor.     Go    ahead. 


The  Escape  119 

Rosalie.  It's  still  about  my  poor  husband. 
As  long  as  the  doctors  can  do  nothing  for  him. 

The  Doctor.     Well? 

Rosalie.  [Hesitating]  Do  you,  monsieur  — 
do  you  perhaps  know  of  pere  Guernoche? 

The  Doctor.     Who  is  he.'^ 

Rosalie.  He  is  an  old  shepherd  who  comes 
from  the  same  place  I  do  —  fibreville,  where 
we  are  going  —  I  have  been  told  that  he  has  a 
secret  and  an  elixir  by  which  he  cures  all  mal- 
adies. [Bertry  shrugs  his  shoulders]  And  so  I 
should  like  my  poor  Justin  to  see  him. 

The  Doctor.  Do  what  you  want  to,  but  I 
warn  you  that  Justin  will  be  dead  before  he 
reaches  fibreville. 

Rosalie.     If  I  were  sure  of  that! 

The  Doctor.     Try  it! 

Rosalie.  But  it's  Justin  himself  who  wants 
to  go.  He  is  convinced  that  pere  Guernoche 
will  cure  him.  When  I  told  him  yesterday  that 
we  were  going  to  fibreville  he  asked  me  whether 
I  was  going  to  take  him  along.  I  did  not  dare 
say  no,  and  this  morning  he  was  already  feel- 
ing much   better. 

The  Doctor.  As  a  physician,  I  forbid  you 
to  allow  your  husband  to  travel. 

[Mr.  Bertry  enters]  Here  is  my  brother. 
Leave   us!     [Rosalie  goes] 

Bertry.     [Fifty-three  years  old]     How  are  you? 


120  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  [After  looking  about,  he  speaks 
in  a  low  voice]     Always  the  same. 

Bertry.  What  kind  of  a  night  did  you 
have.'' 

The  Doctor.     A  bad  one. 

Bertry.  Poor  fellow!  Well,  what  is  really 
the  matter  with  you? 

The  Doctor.  If  you  knew  more  about  sci- 
ence you  would  probably  realize  that  physicians' 
illnesses  are  almost  always  exceptional  cases. 

Bertry.  And  if  one  of  your  patients  were 
afflicted  with  your  malady.'' 

The  Doctor.  Ah!  If  it  were  a  client,  I 
should  have  to  find  some  name  for  his  sick- 
ness —  and  I  should  tell  him  that  there  was 
hope  for  his  recovery  —  I  should  deceive  him  — 
but  I  cannot  fool  myself. 

Bertry.     Why  not  see  another  doctor? 

The  Doctor.     You  are  crazy. 

Bertry.     But  why  not? 

The  Doctor.     They'd  make  fun  of  me. 

Bertry  You  know  my  opinion  of  medicine, 
I  don't  believe  in  it  —  but  as  you  are  forced  to 
believe  in  it,  I  thought  — 

The  Doctor.  That's  all  right.  Have  you 
found  a  new  manager? 

Bertry.     No. 

The  Doctor.  Good  Dr.  Richon  has  gone  to 
look  for  one.     Doesn't  the  idea  of  putting  your- 


The  Escape  121 

self  at  the  head  of  this  great  agricultural  ex- 
ploitation tempt  you  at  all? 

Bertry.  Tempt  me?  You  think,  then,  that 
because  I  was  formerly  a  manufacturer  I  could 
now  transform  myself  into  a  farmer,  at  my 
age?  But  why  don't  you  send  your  step-son  to 
take  charge  of  things  at  fibre ville? 

The   Doctor.     Jean? 

Bertry.  Of  course!  The  lands  are  his. 
He  is  sickly,  and  that  life  will  make  him  feel 
better. 

The  Doctor.     Nothing  of  the  kind. 

Bertry.     But  — 

The  Doctor.  [In  a  superior  manner]  Come, 
come  now!  You  are  not  going  to  pretend  to 
discuss  such  things  with  me,  I  hope?  I  am  very 
much  afraid  that  nothing  can  save  Jean  from 
his    melancholy. 

Bertry.     But  why? 

The  Doctor.  When  I  married  his  mother, 
you  remember  he  was  only  two  years  old,  and 
she  died  a  short  while  after  our  marriage.  I 
brought  up  Jean  then,  and  he  has  grown  up 
under  my  eyes  —  I  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  him. 

Bertry.     What? 

The  Doctor.  Jean  belongs  to  a  family  in 
which  hypochondria  and  suicide  are  hereditary. 

Bertry.     But  isn't  there  a  cure  for  that? 


122  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  Yes,  but  it  works  only  on  rare 
occasions.  I  have  done  what  I  could;  I  wanted 
to  distract  him,  and  have  him  out  in  the  open; 
I  sent  him  to  college  in  the  country,  in  order 
to  ease  my  conscience,  but  all,  of  course,  was  of 
no  avail.  When  he  reached  his  twenty-fifth 
year  I  used  the  great  means. 

Bertry.     You  frighten  me. 

The  Doctor.  I  bade  him  summon  up  all  his 
strength;  then  I  told  him  his  father's  life  story; 
I  told  him  of  the  terrible  ancestral  influence  that 
hung  over  him;  I  gave  him  my  books  to  read, 
trusting  that,  knowing  of  the  dangers  which 
beset  him,  he  would  decide  to  save  himself,  to 
react.     He  was  sadder  than  before. 

Bertry.     That  does  not  surprise  me! 

The  Doctor.  You  remember  —  it  was  when 
he  fell  in  love  with  your  daughter.  [After  re- 
flecting] Come  to  think  of  it,  that  would  be 
a  good  reason  for  making  him  leave  here. 

Bertry.  Oh,  you  can  be  easy  about  that! 
Jean  is  so  timid  that  he  would  never  dare  say 
a  word  to  Lucienne  about  it.  Besides,  he  keeps 
away  from  her,  and  they  treat  each  other  as  if 
they  were  strangers.  He  once  confided  in  me, 
and  I  then  told  you  his  secret,  which  I  alone 
was  to  know.  And  when  he  found  out  that 
you  were  opposed  to  this  marriage  —  in  the 
name   of   science  — 


The  Escape  123 

The  Doctor.    Yes,  in   the   name  of  science. 

Bertry.  He  bowed  down  to  your  will,  and 
so  did  I. 

The  Doctor.     I  am  glad! 

Bertry.     He  has  tried  traveling. 

The  Doctor.  Yes,  and  he  came  back  just  as 
sad,  as  he  was  when  he  went  away. 

Bertry.  Yes  —  you  haven't  changed  your 
opinion  about  this  union.'* 

The  Doctor.  I  have  not  changed  my  opin- 
ion. 

Bertry.  Just  the  same  —  you  ought  to  be 
very  certain  about  what  you  say  when  you  take 
such  responsibilities  upon  yourself. 

The  Doctor.  I  take  them  without  the  least 
hesitation. 

Bertry.     Here  is  Dr.  Richon. 

[Dr.  Richon  enters.  He  is  an  old  country 
doctor.  He  wears  a  white  tie,  but  does  not  appear 
at  all  ridiculous] 

The  Doctor.     Well,  my  friend? 

Richon.  I  haven't  been  able  to  find  any  one 
—  but  I  have  an  idea.  Why  doesn't  Jean  take 
matters  into  his  own  hands?  Excuse  me,  please, 
for  calling  him  Jean.  I  saw  him  come  into  the 
world. 

The  Doctor.     Jean  would  never  want  to. 

Richon.  It  would  be  wonderful  for  his 
health. 


124  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  I  agree  with  you.  [He  rings 
the  bell]  But  you  shall  see  for  yourself.  [To 
Rosalie]  Tell  Monsieur  Jean  I  want  to  speak  to 
him.     [Rosalie  goes] 

RiCHON.  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  shake  hands 
with  him!  I  have  now  been  practicing  for  more 
than  thirty  years  in  his  birthplace,  fibreville. 
I  helped  a  bit  in  bringing  him  up.  I  was  both 
his  mother's  and  his  father's  physician,  alas! 

[Jean  enters  from  the  right.  He  is  twenty- 
eight  years  old,  and  has  a  very  sad  face] 

Jean.     How  do  you  do,  my  good  doctor? 

RiCHON.  How  are  you,  my  dear  boy?  [They 
shake  hands] 

The  Doctor.  Sit  down.  There  are  three 
of  us  here  who  are  very  fond  of  you:  your 
uncle.  Dr.  Richon,  and  I.  We  were  talking 
about  you  —  and  we  were  wondering  why  you 
yourself  would  not  take  care  of  your  lands  at 
Libreville. 

Jean.     I? 

Richon.     Yes. 

Jean.     What  would  be  the  good  of  it? 

Bertry.  But,  my  Lord,  I'd  understand  your 
attitude  if  you  only  got  some  good  out  of  your 
life  here  in  Paris. 

Jean.     You  find  Paris  gay? 

Bertry.     Of   course. 

Richon.     If  you  do  not  care  for  Paris,  why 


The  Escape  125 

do  you  refuse  to  go  down  to  fibreville?  The  air 
is  much  better  there  than  here.  I  am  sure  that 
you  would  feel  better,  too.  Don't  you  think  so, 
dear  master? 

The  Doctor.  Obviously.  Besides,  it  is  now 
quite  the  thing  to  be  a  country  gentleman. 
One  hunts,  rides  —  and  Ebreville  is  but  an 
hour  away  from  Dieppe. 

Bertry.  Doesn't  that  mean  anything  to 
you? 

Jean.  But  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  down 
there  into  all  that  confusion? 

RiCHON.     In  order  to  safeguard  your  fortune. 

Bertry.     That's  the  reason. 

Jean.  Yes  —  you  are  right,  I  feel  that  I 
ought  to  follow  your  advice,  but  I  haven't  the 
power  really  to  want  to.  And  besides,  I  shall  al- 
ways have  enough  to  give  me  all  that  I  desire. 
So  what  is  the  good  of  it? 

Bertry.  What  is  the  good  of  it?  That  is 
your  answer  to  everything.  For  that  matter, 
what  is  the  good  of  living? 

Jean.     I  ask  myself  that  very  question. 

RiCHON.     You'll  make  yourself  ill. 

Jean.     I  am  ill  now. 

RiCHON.     Very  ill. 

Jean.     All  the  better! 

Bertry.  I  tell  you,  the  youth  of  today  is 
happy!     You   are  the  last  of  the   romanticists. 


126  Brieux 

my  dear  fellow,  and  you  speak  like  one  of  Cha- 
teaubriand's heroes.  But  for  heaven's  sake,  do 
something,  laugh! 

Jean.     You  think  that  is  possible? 

Bertry.     You  only  have  to  want  to  do  it. 

RiCHON.  If  you  are  confident  that  you  will 
be  cured  you  will  get  well. 

Jean.  Just  as  some  people  are  born  huncl- 
backed,  I  was  born  sad.  They  can  wish  in 
vain  to  become  straight.     They  never  will  be! 

The  Doctor.  You  see,  my  dear  Richon, 
nothing  can  be  done.  Are  you  going  to  spend 
several  days  in  Paris? 

Richon.  No.  I  am  returning  this  evening  — 
I  have  two  little  rogues  coming  into  the  world 
in   fibreville. 

The  Doctor.  Should  you  like  to  visit  my 
clinic? 

Richon.     I  should  very  much  like  to. 

The  Doctor.  Here  is  my  card.  My  secre- 
tary. Dr.  La  Belleuse,  will  act  as  your  guide. 
Au  revoir,   my  good   Richon.     [Richon    goes  out] 

Bertry.  A  carriage  has  just  driven  up.  It 
is  Madame  de  Cattenieres. 

The  Doctor.  I'm  going  —  she  will  ask  for  a 
consultation.  Stay  here,  Jean  —  and  you,  tell 
Lucienne.     [He  goes] 

Jean.  [To  Bertry]  Will  you  allow  me  to? 
Stay  here  a  moment. 


The  Escape  127 

Bertry.  Are  you  afraid  of  being  left  alone 
with  Madame  de  Cattenieres? 

Jean.     Almost. 

[Mme.  de  Cattenieres  enters] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  How  do  you  do. 
Monsieur  Bertry  —  and  you.  Monsieur  Jean? 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  And  Lucienne  — 
she  is  well?  —  all  the  better!  I  can't  stand  it 
any  longer.  Thank  heavens  the  season  to  go 
to  the  seashore  is  almost  here.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  hold  out  to  the  end.  I'll  have  to 
tell  you  my  programme  for  the  day. 

Bertry.  I'll  go  get  Lucienne,  who  would  be 
sorry  not  to  hear  it.     Will  you  excuse  me? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Yes,  go  —  Monsieur 
Jean  will  keep  me  company. 

Bertry.  He  will  be  charmed,  I  am  sure. 
[He  goes] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Is  it  true  —  that 
you  will  be  charmed?  I  should  so  love  to  have 
a  long  talk  with  you!  You  are  sad.  Oh,  do 
not  try  to  deny  it!  You  know  women  notice 
those  things  immediately  —  I  always  thought 
that  you  fostered  a  silent  grande  passion. 

The  Servant.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Lon- 
guyon.  [  They  enter  —  Madame  Longuyon  is  a 
pretty,  vivacious  woman] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  My  dear  friend! 
How  are  you.  Monsieur  Longuyon  —  [There  is 


128  Brieux 

a  short  conversation  at  the  doorway.  During  this 
time  Jean  goes  oui\  Lucienne  will  be  here  in  a 
moment,  so  sit  down  —  Monsieur  Jean  and  I 
were  just  saying  —  Why  he's  gone,  the  rascal  — 
We  were  talking  of  the  Lombard-Dubois  — ■ 
You  were  there  last  night?  What  a  lovely 
affair  it  was! 

LoNGUYON.     Yes,  but  it  lasted  too  long. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  You  should  have  gone 
home    alone. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Of  course. 

Longuyon.  And  left  my  wife  among  those 
youngsters?  No,  Madame  de  Cattenieres,  I  am 
not  that  type  of  a  husband. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  As  it  was,  we  left  before 
the  end  of  the  cotillion. 

Mme.    de    Cattenieres.     Was    the    cotillion 

gay? 

Mme.  Longuyon.     Very  gay. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Why  of  course,  it 
must  have  been,  since  it  was  led  by  Dr.  La 
Belleuse,  who  is  the  best  cotillion  leader  of  the 
times. 

The  Servant.  Dr.  La  Belleuse.  [La  Bel- 
leuse enters] 

La  Belleuse.  Are  you  laughing  about  me? 
{To  Longuyon,  who  has  risen]     Hello,  Longuyon! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  It  was  about  you  — 
I  was  saying  to  Monsieur  Longuyon  that  you 


The  Escape  129 

must  be  a  great  success  with  your  pretty  pa- 
tients. 

La  Belleuse.  [In  spite  of  himself,  he  imi- 
tates Dr.  Beriry's  manner  of  speech  during  the 
following]  You  are  making  an  error,  madame, 
that  almost  every  one  makes.  A  regrettable 
error.  A  doctor's  office  is  not  a  boudoir,  I 
assure  you;  it  is  a  confessional  for  human 
miseries,  and  when  love  is  spoken  of  there,  the 
subject  is  a  good  deal  less  amusing  than  you 
can  possibly  imagine.  For  us  a  patient  is  not 
a  woman,  but  simply  a  sick  person,  and  there 
you   are ! 

Mme.  de  CATTENifiREs.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

LoNGUYON.  You  are  a  good  man,  doctor! 
[Softly]  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you.  Listen 
—  my  wife  cannot  make  up  her  mind  to  go  and 
see  you,  although  I  have  begged  her  to  —  and 
her  health  troubles  me.  Will  you  take  advan- 
tage of  this  meeting  to  give  her  a  lecture?  It 
would  be  awfully  kind  of  you. 

La  Belleuse.     I  shall  be  very  glad  to. 

[Longuyon  takes  La  Belleuse  up  to  where  his 
wife  is.     She  has  turned  a  bit  away] 

Longuyon.     I'll  leave  you  here! 

[He  returns  to  Mme.  de  Cattenieres,  excuses 
himself,  and  walks  to  the  fireplace,  upon  which 
he  leans  his  elbow.     From  here  he  makes  signs 


130  Brieux 

to  La  Belleuse  who  is  standing  next  to  Mme. 
Longuyon] 

La  Belleuse.  [To  Mme.  Longuyon  in  a  low 
voice]  I  waited  for  you,  Helene,  all  yesterday 
afternoon. 

Mme.  Longuyon.     I  could  not  come. 

La  Belleuse.     Then  you  do  not  love  me? 

Mme.  Longuyon.  You  know  very  well  that 
I  do!     You  are  smiling? 

La  Belleuse.  Yes,  your  husband  is  making 
signs  of  encouragement  to  me. 

[La  Belleuse  smiles  at  Longuyon  and  nods  his 
head,  as  if  to  say:  ''Everything  will  be  all  right"] 

Longuyon.  [To  Mme.  de  Cattenieres]  That 
Dr.  La  Belleuse  has  a  heart  of  gold. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Who  has  been  watch- 
ing all  the  proceedings]      Hasn't  he,  though? 

Longuyon.  Are  you  doing  the  honors  here? 
I'm  not  complaining  that  you  are,  remember! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Lucienne  is  coming. 

Longuyon.     And  her  father? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  He  is  probably  with 
his  brother. 

Longuyon.  I  have  always  wondered  how 
two  people  so  entirely  different  as  the  doctor 
and  his  brother  could  live  together.  Monsieur 
Bertry  made  his  fortune  in  business,  didn't  he? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Not  exactly;  he 
rebuilt  it  there,  for  at  the  age  of  twenty-five 


»^'" 


The  Escape  131 

he  had  squandered  his  part  of  his  inheritance. 

LoNGUYON.     Ah!   Women? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  No  —  just  one 
woman!  That  is,  the  others  did  not  come  until 
later. 

LoNGUYON.     He  did  not  try  to  reform? 

Mme,  de  Cattenieres.  On  the  contrary. 
He  had  them  all,  from  country  ladies  to  his  own 
factory  workers  —  faugh ! 

LoNGUYON.     Don  Juan! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  A  Don  Juan,  manu- 
facturing woolens  —  that's  what  he  is. 

LoNGUYON.     And  his  wife  never  knew  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     His  wife? 

LoNGUYON.     Madame  Bertry? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  knew  Madame 
Bertry? 

LoNGUYON.      No. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Your  wife  knew  her? 

LoNGUYON.     Don't  bother  her. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  That's  right.  If  you 
know  nothing  about  it,  let's  consider  that  I  have 
said  nothing. 

Longuyon.     Then  there  is  something? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Nothing.  Dear 
Lucienne  is  making  us  wait  a  long  while. 

Longuyon.  Perhaps  she  is  working  with 
her  uncle.  They  tell  me  that  she  acts  as  his 
secretary. 


132  Brieux 

Mme.  db  Cattenieres.  And  why  not?  Doc- 
tor Bertry  loves  to  dictate,  and  his  latest  works 
on  heredity  have  been  entirely  transcribed  by 
Lucienne. 

LoNGUYON.     What  a  charming  girl   she  is! 

Mme.   de   Cattenieres.     Isn't   she,   though? 
A     bit     eccentric.       She     gets     that     from     her 
mother. 

LoNGUYON.     You  know  her  then? 

Mme.   de   Cattenieres.     Who,   the  mother? 

LoNGUYON.     Yes. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     She  is  dead. 

LoNGUYON.     Well,   then,  did  you  know  her? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Shocked]  I !  — 
Heavens,  no !  —  But  you  will  not  make  me  tell 
you  what  I  would  rather  not  talk  about  —  Of 
all  the  young  girls  I  know  I  love  Lucienne  best. 

LoNGUYON.     She  is  a  good  match. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Of  course! 

LoNGUYON.  Wasn't  she  to  be  married  some 
time  ago? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  To  Paul  de  Mau- 
cour? 

LoNGUYON.     Yes. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Why  surely.  A 
very  natural  indiscretion,  however,  stopped 
everything. 

LoNGUYON.     An   indiscretion? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     And  Paul  de  Mau- 


The  Escape  133 

cour  married  Alice,  Lucienne's  best  friend.  But 
that's  all  old.  They  have  returned  from  their 
honeymoon  and  have  even  called  on  Lucienne,  and 
she  was  very  glad  to  see  them. 

LoNGUYON.  You  don't  mean  it!  He  took  his 
wife  to  visit  his  former  fiancee? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Paul  de  Maucour  is 
one   of   Jean    Belmont's   class   mates. 

LoNGUYON.     Nevertheless  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  But  it  was  Lucienne 
who   wanted   them   to   come. 

LoNGUYON.  A  propos  of  this  broken  engage- 
ment, you  were  speaking  of  an  indiscretion. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  are  getting 
wrong  ideas  into  your  head.  I  see  that  the 
best  thing  to  do  is  to  tell  you  everything.  Well, 
Lucienne's  mother  was  one  of  the  prominent 
cocottes  of  the  end  of  the  Empire:  there  you 
are,  now  —  that's  everything!  [Lucienne  enters] 
Why,  here  is  Lucienne!  [She  goes  to  her]  How 
do  you  do,  my  dear?  It  has  seemed  a  long 
while,  in  spite  of  the  company  of  this  gentleman, 
who  is  a  chatterer.      But  you  look  superb! 

Lucienne.  [To  Mme.  de  Cattenieres]  Please 
excuse  me  —  but  we  have  had  to  hurry  our  de- 
parture for  fibreville.  How  do  you  do,  La 
Belleuse?  Please  don't  get  up.  [She  shakes 
hands    vnth    Mme.    Longuyon    and    La    Belleuse] 


134  Brieux 

Please  don't  move!  [She  joins  Mme.  de  Cat- 
tenieres]     Yes,  my  dear! 

LoNGUYON.  [Goes  on  his  tiptoes  to  the  center 
table  and  takes  up  an  album.  La  Belleuse  and 
Mme.  Longuyon  move  slightly]  I'm  going  to 
look    at   the   pictures. 

[He  goes  to  the  rear  table  and  sits  down] 

LuciENNE.  [To  Mme.  de  Cattenieres]  I'll 
tell  you  what  has  been  keeping  me  —  there  are 
a  lot  of  good  people  down  at  Ebreville  to  whom 
I  take  clothes  and  good  things  to  eat  every  time 
I  go  down  there.  If  they  should  see  me  arrive 
with  empty  hands  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you  do  that  sort  of  thing? 

Lucienne.  [A  little  nervous]  You  are  sur- 
prised? You  never  thought  that  I  could  dream 
of  anything  but  clothes,  say  anything  but  triv- 
ialities, or  do  anything  but  flirt! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Not  at  all,  I  assure 
you. 

Lucienne.  Come,  come!  Now  don't  try  to 
get  out  of  it.  And  you  are  not  the  only  one 
who  thinks  so.  After  all,  you  are  right.  And 
when  I  do  other  things  I  meddle  with  what 
isn't  my  business.  But  let  us  talk  of  you! 
How  have  you  been? 

Mme.  de   Cattenieres.     Not    well.     At    one 


The  Escape  135 

time  I  have  a  voracious  appetite,  and  then  I 
cannot   eat   at   all. 

[They  continue  speaking  in  a  low  voice] 

Mme.  Longuyon.  [Rising,  to  La  Belleuse]  No 
—  I  say  no.  You  see  —  this  idea  of  dividing 
myself  between  my  husband  and  you  revolts  me. 

La  Belleuse.     If  that  is  all  — 

Mme.  Longuyon.  What  do  you  mean,  if 
that  is  all! 

La   Belleuse.     You'll  see. 

[He  approaches  Longuyon  and  takes  him  by  the 
arm.     Mme.  Longuyon  joins  Lucienne] 

Lucienne.  Alice  de  Maucour!  Is  she  still 
my  best  friend?     Of  course!     And  why  not.'' 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     And  her  husband? 

Lucienne.  He  is  also  still  one  of  my  friends, 
my  dear. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  knew  it,  Ma- 
dame Longuyon? 

Mme.  Longuyon.     Why,  surely! 

Lucienne.  He  is  still  one  of  my  friends, 
and  if  you  will  stay  here  a  little  while  longer 
you  will  be  able  to  see  for  yourself,  for  I  know 
that  both  of  them  are  coming  to  bid  me  good- 
bye. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     I  have  been  told  — 

Lucienne.  There  are  so  many  people  with 
evil  tongues! 

La  Belleuse.     [To  Longuyon,  dravnng  him  up 


136  Brieux 

the  stage]  My  dear  man,  I  have  had  a  long 
talk  with  your  wife. 

LONGUYON.     Well? 

La  Belleuse.  You  are  right.  Her  apparent 
good  health  is  only  on  the  surface.  She  needs 
a  great  deal  of  care,  a  great  deal  of  care. 

LoNGUYON.     That  is  what  I  thought. 

La  Belleuse.  But  even  more  than  you 
imagine.     [They  continue  speaking  softly] 

LoNGUYON.     Very  well,  I  promise  you. 

La  Belleuse.  Well  and  good!  [They  shake 
hands.  To  Lucienne]  I  am  leaving  now,  and 
I  want  to  wish  you  a  very  pleasant  trip. 

Lucienne.     Good-bye  —  Good-bye. 

[La  Belleuse  goes  out] 

The  Servant.  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Maucour. 

[Alice  embraces  Lucienne.  Paul  shakes  hands 
with  her  and  then  greets  Mme.  de  Cattenieres] 

Alice.     How  are  you? 

Lucienne.     And  you? 

Alice.     I  am  so  glad  to  be  with  you  again. 

Lucienne.    And  I  am  glad  to  have  you  here. 

Alice.  You  know  that  we  are  going  to 
Dieppe  this  year. 

Lucienne.     Then  we  shall  see  one  another. 

Alice.     I  should  think  so! 

Lucienne.  Ebreville  is  seven  and  a  half 
miles  from  Dieppe. 


The  Escape  137 

Alice.  A  half  hour  by  bicycle. 

LuciENNE.     Do  you   ride? 

Alice.     Yes,   with  Paul.     We  love  it. 

Mme.  de  Catteniebes.  I  am  going,  my 
dear  Lucienne.  I  don't  want  to  intrude  on  two 
such   good   friends. 

Lucienne.     You  are  not  intruding  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  I  am  just  fooling, 
I  want  to  try  to  catch  Dr.  La  Belleuse  and  see 
whether  he  can  tell  me  what's  the  matter  with 
me. 

Alice.     Are  you  ill,  my  dear? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  At  one  time  I  have 
a  voracious  appetite,  and  then  I  cannot  eat  at 
all.  I  am  going  to  tell  the  doctor  about  it. 
Please  do  not  rise.     [She  goes] 

Alice.  I  can  hardly  believe,  when  I  see  us 
two  here,  that  it  is  I  who  am  the  "madame"  — 
Who  ever  would  have  thought  that  I  should  be 
the  first  to  marry! 

Lucienne.     Why  not? 

Alice.  [Carelessly]  Oh,  my  dear,  but  you 
are  older  than  I  am!  [A  pause]  You  will  never 
guess  what  people  have  told  me;  that  you  were 
to  marry  Paul.     Of  course  I  laughed! 

Lucienne.  You  should  not  have  —  for  it  is 
true. 

Alice.     You  don't  really  mean  it! 

Lucienne.     Why,  yes  — 


138  Brieux 

Alice.     Were  things  pretty  far  advanced? 

LuciENNE.     Far  enough! 

Alice.     Did  your  relatives  plan  it? 

LuciENNE.  No,  we  did  —  we  were  in  love 
with  each  other. 

Alice.     Ah ! 

LuciENNE.  Probably  seeing  you  was  enough 
for   him. 

Alice.  That  probably  would  have  sufficed; 
but  your  engagement  was  already  broken  when 
he  met  me.     Why  was  it  broken? 

LuciENNE.     I  don't  know. 

Alice.  Listen,  dear  Lucienne,  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  You  have  a  lot  of  enemies, 
and  people  are  saying  nasty  things  about  you. 

LuciENNE.  [Raising  her  voice  a  little]  About 
me?  What  do  they  say?  I  beg  you  to  tell 
me  what  they  say. 

Alice.  Do  not  talk  so  loud.  It's  not  ex- 
actly about  you  that  people  are  talking  —  and 
besides,  what  they  say  is  so  improbable.  And 
finally,  I  don't  understand  about  such  things 
at  all  —  I  was  told  —  I  am  telling  you  this  in 
your  interest  —  I  was  told  that  when  Paul's 
parents  refused  their  consent  to  your  marriage 
it  was  not  on  your  account. 

Lucienne.  It  was  on  account  of  my  mother, 
wasn't  it? 

Alice.     [Embarrassed]     Not    exactly. 


The  Escape  139 

LuciENNE.  That's  all  right.  I  did  not  know 
that,  and  I  thank  you  for  telling  me  about  it. 

Alice.  Anyway,  you  need  not  feel  any  great 
regrets;  for  if  Paul  had  really  loved  you  deeply, 
as  you  deserved,  he  would  have  done  more  to 
overcome  his  parents'  remonstrances.  But  I 
appear  to  be  monopolizing  you.  You  are  not 
angry  with  me,  are  you?  [She  rises,  and  ap- 
proaches the  Longuyons] 

LuciENNE.  No  —  [Paul  de  Maucour  ap- 
proaches   Lucienne]    Monsieur    de    Maucour.'' 

Paul.     Mademoiselle  Lucienne! 

LuciENNE.  A  word,  please!  Won't  people 
say  that  you  are  running  after  me? 

Paul.  I  have  been  made  to  treat  you  so 
badly,  Lucienne,  that  I  was  waiting  for  you  to 
reproach  me. 

Lucienne.  Bah!  It  makes  little  difference 
to  me. 

Paul.     I  loved  you  a  great  deal,  Lucienne! 

Lucienne.     [Softly]     And  I  too,  I  loved  you! 

Paul.  And  I  still  love  you  —  I  ask  your 
forgiveness  —  I  should  not  speak  like  this  to  a 
young  girl. 

Lucienne.  Oh,  nonsense!  Am  I  a  young 
girl  like  the  others? 

Paul.  Yes.  But  better  than  the  others. 
The  man  who  gets  you  for  a  wife  may  consider 
himself  lucky. 


140  Brieux 

LuciENNE.  Do  not  say  what  you  do  not 
really  believe.     Besides,  I  shall  never  marry. 

Paul.     Have  you  so  little  love  in  you.^ 

LuciENNE.     But  I  did  not  say  that  — 

Paul.     Then  you  love  me? 

[Jean  enters.  Lucienne  bursts  into  a  loud 
laughy  then  she  says  softly] 

LuciENNE.  You  are  a  fool !  —  What  is  there 
new  in  Paris?     Do  you  go  to  the  theater? 

Paul.  Yesterday  I  took  Alice  to  the  Casino 
des   Larbins. 

LuciENNE.     Where? 

Paul.  Oh,  it's  quite  the  place  to  go  now-a- 
days.  You  see  every  one  there.  You  should 
see  the  line  of  carriages  that  stands  in  front 
every  night. 

LuciENNE.     What  is  the  attraction? 

Paul.     A  pantomime:  The  Night  in  the  Seraglio. 

LuciENNE.  And  that  is?  [She  snaps  her 
fingers] 

Paul.  [Looks  at  her  in  a  surprised  manner. 
Smiling]  You  have  become  quite  modernized 
during  the  last  six  months. 

LuciENNE.  You  think  so?  I  tell  you,  it 
was  not  hard  for  me  to  change. 

Paul.     Ah! 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

[A  pause,  during  ivhich  Paul  is  visibly  em- 
barrassed] 


The  Escape  141 

Paul.  You  were  asking  me?  I  really  don't 
remember  what  any  more  — 

LuciENNE.  I  was  asking  you  about  the 
pantomime  —  is  it  rather  free? 

Paul.     One  can  go  only  if  one  takes  a  box. 

LuciENNE.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  not  mar- 
ried. If  I  were  I  should  immediately  go  to 
see  your  masterpiece. 

Paul.  If  there  were  not  so  many  con- 
ventions — 

LuciENNE.  [Laughing  loudly]  I  might  go 
with  you  some  evening? 

Paul.     I  did  not  say  that. 

LuciENNE.     I  should  hope  not. 

Paul.     Shall  we  be  good  friends  —  Lucienne? 

LuciENNE.  [Giving  him  her  hand]  As  good 
as  you   wish. 

Paul.  [Holding  her  hand]  You  are  more 
adorable  than  ever  and  I  love  you  more  than  I 
ever  did  before. 

LuciENNE.  [Releasing  her  hand]  And  in  an- 
other way. 

Alice.  [Coming  up  to  them]  I  am  sorry 
to  have  to  interrupt  you  —  but  you  know,  Paul, 
that  they  are  waiting  for  us.  [To  Lucienne] 
Good-bye,  my  dear,  and  bon  voyage. 

LuciENNE.  Then  it's  understood  that  we  shall 
see  you  at  l^breville? 


142  Brieux 

Alice.  Unless,  by  chance,  we  should  not  go 
to  Dieppe. 

[Lucienne  takes  them  to  the  door.  Longuyon 
and  his  wife  join  them,  and  all  say  good-bye] 

Jean.  You  should  not  compromise  yourself 
thus,   Lucienne. 

Lucienne.     And  why,  pray? 

Jean.  You  should  not  jest  with  Paul  de 
Maucour  as  you  do,  and  you  should  not  allow 
him  to  speak  to  you  as  he  does. 

Lucienne.     That  appears  to  be  my  business. 

Jean.  You  are  wrong.  It  is  also  your 
friends'  business. 

Lucienne.  I  haven't  any  friends:  or  rather 
I  have  so  many;    which  amounts  to  none  at  all. 

Jean.     You  have  at  least  one  good  one. 

Lucienne.     You? 

Jean.     Me. 

Lucienne.  After  all,  perhaps  that  is  true, 
for  I  cannot  see  any  reason  why  you  should  lie 
to  me  about  it. 

Jean.  Your  actions,  however,  affect  my 
friendship   for   you. 

Lucienne.     Because? 

Jean.  Because  you  are  preparing  yourself 
for  unhappiness. 

Lucienne.     Do  you  think  so? 

Jean.  Seeing  you  so  inconsistent,  who  do 
you  think  will  marry  you? 


The  Escape  143 

LuciENNE.  And  who  tells  you,  pray,  that  I 
want  to  marry? 

Jean.     You  hate  the  idea  of  marriage? 

LuciENNE.  I  do  not  hate  it;  but  it  is  for- 
bidden to  me. 

Jean.     What  do  you  mean? 

LuciENNE.  It's  true  that  you  are  not  inter- 
ested in  the  scandal  of  the  day.  We  have  not 
met  much.  You  do  not  like  to  talk,  you  never 
leave  your  room,  where  your  misanthropy  keeps 
you;  you  have  not  been  in  Paris  long  and  you 
do  not  know  things  about  me  that  the  whole 
world  is  talking  of.  Well!  Now  you  shall 
learn  the  state  of  affairs!  A  man  can  make  me 
his  mistress  but  never  his  wife.  However,  I 
am  not  any  worse  than  other  young  girls;  I 
was  not  more  perverted  than  Alice,  my  former 
friend,  and  Paul  de  Maucour  married  her.  But, 
on  account  of  my  birth,  I  am  doomed  to  evil. 

Jean.  [Moved]  By  your  birth!  Will  you 
please   explain? 

LuciENNE.     What  good  will  that  do? 

Jean.  Well,  I,  I,  too,  am  doomed  to  evil, 
and  through  no  fault  of  mine. 

LuciENNE.  I  received  at  birth  a  fatal  heri- 
tage. 

Jean.  I  also  am  crushed  by  a  fatal  heritage, 
as  you  call  it.  My  father  transmitted  to  me 
the    melancholy    which    poisoned    him    through 


144  Brieux 

life.  Ah,  Lucienne,  tell  me  your  troubles;  no 
one,  no  one  can  understand  theih  better  than  I. 

Lucienne.  I  have  to  carry  the  burden  of 
my  mother's  indiscretions.  She  transmitted  to 
me  all  the  sadness  of  her  life  —  no,  I  am  wrong, 
she  gave  to  me  repentance  for  her  pleasures, 
for  she  led  a  gay  life,  and  it  is  I  who  am  pun- 
ished. 

Jean.  Do  not  speak  like  that  of  your 
mother,    Lucienne. 

Lucienne.  [Rising]  Ah,  yes!  The  con- 
ventional filial  respect!  You  see,  I  was  never 
taught  that.  My  father  loves  me  in  his  way, 
he  does  what  he  can  for  me.  It's  not  his  fault 
that  his  pleasures  have  always  taken  up  the 
greater  part  of  his  time.  It  is  true  that  he  rec- 
ognized me,  but  he  has  always  left  the  problem 
of  my  education  in  his  brother's  hands.  As  to 
my  mother,  I  have  already  let  you  imagine  what 
she  was.  Filial  respect!  Believe  that  I  am  a 
monster,  if  you  will,  but  I  have  searched  in 
every  corner  of  my  heart  —  still  I  cannot  find 
that  respect  there! 

Jean.  I  do  not  dare  —  I  cannot  ask  you  to 
explain. 

Lucienne.  In  order  to  have  you  understand 
it  will  only  be  necessary  for  me  to  mention  my 
mother's  name,  for  she  was  celebrated.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago   the  daily  papers    mentioned  her 


The  Escape  145 

name  a  million  times;  why,  even  pamphlets 
were  published  with  her  picture  and  an  account 
of  her  life  —  I  would  have  blushed  to  read  them 
even  if  she  had  been  a  total  stranger  to  me  — 
Her  name  was  Sophie  Claret;  I  look  like  her; 
I  have  her  mannerisms,  the  same  vocal  intona- 
tions —  an  old  friend  of  my  father's  told  me  so 

—  and  I  have  her  spirit,  too. 

Jean.     How  did  you  come  to  know  all  this? 

LuciENNE.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  was 
expelled  from  a  convent  after  I  had  been  there 
but  a  week.  They  made  some  sort  of  an  ex- 
cuse; but  a  little  friend  of  mine  who  did  not 
understand  what  she  was  saying,  told  me  that 
I  had  been  expelled  because  I  was  the  daughter 
of  Sophie  Claret.  You  know  what  that  means 
to  a  young  girl.  At  first,  I  was  very  much  sur- 
prised, then  I  forgot  about  it.  However,  I 
already  felt  that  I  was  different  from  the  aver- 
age. My  uncle  would  often  stop  my  father 
when  he  scolded  me.  He  would  say:  "Leave 
the  poor  child  alone;  you  cannot  make  her  over, 
she  has  it  in  her  blood."     I  can  still  remember 

—  I  think  I  was  seventeen  when  I  overheard 
this  conversation  between  two  young  people:  — 
"  Lucienne  Bertry  —  there  is  nothing  to  fear 
with  her.  One  can't  be  compelled  to  marry 
her.  "  I  heard  nothing  more  excepting  the 
name  of  my  mother.     Finally,  four  years  ago. 


146  Brieux 

in  opening  a  paper,  —  I  don't  know  where  I 
got  it  from  — •  that  same  name  met  my  eyes. 
This  time  I  wanted  to  know.  By  making  a 
little  eflFort,  with  the  help  of  a  few  tricks,  I 
cannot  tell  you  just  how,  I  was  finally  en- 
lightened — 

Jean.     Poor  little  girl! 

LuciENNE.  Yes,  poor  little  girl!  Two  years 
ago  Paul  de  Maucour  proposed  marriage  to  me. 
Then  he  suddenly  disappeared,  and  when  he 
returned  he  was  married  to  Alice.  I  im- 
mediately knew  the  reason. 

Jean.     On  account  of   your  mother's  name? 

LuciENNE.  Eh!  It's  not  a  question  of  her 
name!  But  people  are  afraid  that  I  am  ex- 
actly like  her,  do  you  understand?  And  deep 
down  I  am  afraid  that  they  are  right.  I  have 
written,  from  my  uncle's  dictation,  his  latest 
works  on  heredity.  Can  you  now  guess  with 
what  eagerness  I  have  listened  during  the  last 
four  years  to  his  lectures  on  heredity  —  im- 
placable heredity,  as  he  calls  it?  Can  you 
understand  with  what  eagerness  I  have  read  and 
reread  all  of  his  books?  There  are  times,  how- 
ever, when  I  ask  myself  whether  they  are  right, 
with  all  their  science  —  for  at  balls,  during 
flirtations,  more  than  once,  I  have  felt  re- 
bellion and  loathing  rise  up  in  my  breast.  What 
they  called  love  disgusted  me.     But  I  honestly 


The  Escape  147 

thought  that  I  should  not  play  the  prude  and  I 
strained  to  overcome  my  loathings  —  I  succeeded 

—  and  just  a  little  while  ago  I  listened,  smilingly, 
to  words  which  formerly  would  have  driven  me 
almost   mad. 

Jean.     Lucienne ! 

LuciENNE.     I  really  dreamed  of  other  things 

—  I  thought  that  my  happiness  in  later  life 
would  be  in  devoting  myself  to  some  one  whom 
I  loved  —  for  whom  I  should  have  the  ajffec- 
tion  that  one  has  for  little  children  —  for,  in 
my  mind,  this  some  one  was  weak  — 

Jean.  [Who  has  listened  with  the  greatest 
emotion,  and  who  now  sits  down  close  to  her] 
Unhappy? 

Lucienne.     Yes. 

Jean.     Like  me,   Lucienne? 

Lucienne.  Like  you.  He  would  have  to 
be  cared  for  more  carefully  than  any  one  else 
in  the  world. 

Jean.  [Putting  his  hands  before  his  face] 
Lucienne !     Lucienne ! 

Lucienne.     Jean! 

Jean.  I  suffer  the  same  as  you  do  —  I  was 
three  years  old  when  my  father  committed 
suicide  — 

Lucienne.  I  was  three  years  old  when  my 
mother  died. 

Jean.     I  also   have  read  all   of   Dr.   Bertry's 


148  Brieux 

books,  and  like  you,  Lucienne,  I  am  in  despair! 
Our  unhappiness  is  the  same. 

Lucienne.     Yes,  the  same. 

Jean.     My  life  is  lost. 

Lucienne.     Mine  too! 

Jean.     I  long  for  death  to  set  me  free! 

Lucienne.  I  have  not  the  right  even  to 
dream  of  the  happiness  that  belongs  to  every 
woman.  [Sobbing]  But  truly,  Jean,  truly,-  do 
you  not  think  that  it  is  sad,  very  sad,  that  there 
are  human  beings  who  are  fated  even  before 
their  birth  to  be  consecrated  to  all  the  bitter- 
ness, all  the  disasters  of  life?  Isn't  it  unjust, 
isn't  it  more  than  unjust? 

Jean.  Yes,  it  is  unjust;  unjust  and  unfor- 
tunate that  we  are  locked  in  the  faults  and  vices 
of  our  ancestors. 

Lucienne.     It  is  like  original  sin  — 

Jean.     For  which  we  are  punished  — 

Lucienne.  Without  having  committed  it  — 
How  well  I  understood  your  sadness! 

Jean.  And  how  I  understand  yours!  We 
are  like  two  exiles  who  meet  — 

Lucienne.  Glad  to  speak  of  their  native 
land,  of  their  common  misfortune  — 

Jean.  [Resting  his  head  on  Lucienne's  shoul- 
der]    And  weep  in  each  other's  arms. 

Lucienne.     [Stroking    his    hair]     Yes,    as    we 


The  Escape  149 

are  doing!  And,  for  a  moment,  their  suffering 
would   be   lessened  — 

[A  pause.  Both  gradually  become  exalted 
during   the  following] 

Jean.  Lucienne  —  these  chains  —  these  chains 
which  the  dead  have  hung  on  us  —  if  we  tried 
to  break  them? 

Lucienne.  [Shows  signs  of  great  joy,  then:] 
—  Impossible  —  we  are  prisoners  to  whom  all 
hope   is   denied  — 

Jean.  There  is  no  prison  from  which  an  es- 
cape is  impossible.  [He  rises]  If  you  want 
to  —  we  will  try  to  escape. 

Lucienne.     It  is  impossible! 

Jean.  No,  it  is  not.  Alone,  the  idea  would 
never  have  struck  me,  and  I  certainly  should 
have  lacked  the  strength  to  realise  it.  But 
with  your  help  —  both  united  in  life  —  for  I 
love  you,  Lucienne,  and  I  have  loved  you  for 
a  long  time. 

Lucienne.  I  know  now.  I  know  that  I 
have  loved  you  —  for  a  long  time  already. 
For  the  husband  of  my  dreams  was  like  you. 

Jean.  We  will  put  the  energy  of  our  youth 
and  the  power  of  our  love  against  their  despair- 
ing science! 

Lucienne.  I  want  to  —  but  I  am  afraid ! 
If  we  were  mistaken,  Jean,  and  if  I  could  not 
escape! 


150  Brieux 

Jean.     I  would  love  you  so  — 

LuciENNE.  I  am  afraid  of  the  influence  of 
the  dead. 

Jean.  You  will  forget  it  —  I  will  make  you 
forget  it.  Besides,  you  will  save  me.  Al- 
ready I  feel  that  I  have  more  strength. 

LuciENNE.  Ah,  Jean!  If  it  were  possible! 
What    happiness!      If     it     were    only    possible! 

Jean.  We  are  going  to  use  every  atom  of 
our  strength  to  combat  it.     Do  you  consent? 

LuciENNE.     I   consent. 

Jean.  [Holding  her  hands,  and  speaking  with 
effusion]  But  I  shall  have  to  act  immediately. 
We  shall  have  to  make  our  projects  known 
immediately.  I  want  to  profit  by  this  awaken- 
ing, this  exaltation  —  for  if  I  should  wait  I 
should  be  afraid  that  I  might  not  have  the 
power  again.  I  am  going  to  speak  to  your 
father.  I  told  him  a  long  while  ago  that  I 
wanted  to  marry  you;  but  at  that  time  I  had 
no  real  energy,  for  I  did  not  know  that  you 
loved  me.  Ah,  how  happy  we  are  going  to 
be !     [He  goes  —  Dr.  Bertry  enters] 

The  Doctor.     Have  all  your  callers  gone? 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

The  Doctor.  You  are  satisfied  to  go  to 
fibre  ville? 

LuciENNE.     Charmed,  charmed,  charmed! 


The  Escape  151 

The  Doctor.  Why  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?     You  are  so  excited! 

LuciENNE.  You  will  know  very  soon.  A 
serious  event  is  going  to  take  place  in  my  life. 

The  Doctor.  [Without  attaching  much  sig- 
nificance to  her  words]  Serious !  —  serious,  and 
at  the  same  time  happy? 

LuciENNE.     Yes,  happy! 

The  Doctor.     All  the  better,  all  the  better! 

[Lucienne  goes  out  —  Dr.  Bertry  is  alone  for 
a  short  while.  Then  Dr.  La  Belleuse  enters  with 
Dr.  Richon  and  Dr.   Morienval] 

La  Belleuse.  Come  in,  my  dear  friends. 
Come  in!  [To  Dr.  Bertry]  Dear  master,  I  am 
bringing  Dr.  Richon  and  our  other  colleague. 
Dr.  Morienval,  who,  having  heard  of  your  de- 
parture, has  come  to  pay  his  respects. 

Richon.  Dear  master  —  I  have  been  as- 
tonished! Ah,  the  Parisians  are  lucky  indeed 
in  possessing  establishments  managed  like  those 
I  have  seen  —  for  they  must  have  cost  — 

La  Belleuse.  The  Parisians  are  luckier 
still,  however,  to  receive  in  them  treatment  by 
Dr.    Bertry. 

The  Doctor.     Gratuitously. 

Morienval.     Gratuitously. 

The  Doctor.  [To  Morienval]  And  you  have 
just  had  your  thesis  accepted,  sir? 

Morienval.     Yes,    dear    master.     My    father 


152  Brieux 

said  to  me:  "Be  either  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor;  if 
you  are  not  successful,  you  can  always  turn  to 
politics." 

La  Belleuse.  By  Jove,  it's  wonderful  what 
power  we  exercise  over  others. 

RiCHON.     Oh,    power! 

La  Belleuse.  Our  mere  title  gives  it  to  us. 
You  don't  believe  it?  There  is  not  a  per- 
son on  earth  who,  once  knowing  what  we  are, 
will  not  feel  troubled  if  we  look  at  them  a  bit 
insistently.  Try  it  at  the  dinner  table,  at  the 
theater,  or  wherever  you  like.  Look  fixedly 
at  one  of  your  friends  who  is  in  good  health. 
Say  to  him  with  a  certain  air:  "Are  you  feeling 
well?"  He  will  be  troubled,  and  his  "yes" 
will  already  be  full  of  anxiety.  He  will  entreat 
you  to  tell  him  what  you  have  noticed.  Then 
reply:  "Oh,  nothing!  I  thought  that  you  were 
a  bit  pale.  Is  your  heart  action  perfectly  all 
right?"  And  the  next  day  that  friend  will  be 
at  your  office,  after  having  passed  a  sleepless 
night.  He  will  ask  you,  with  the  naivete  of  all 
sick  people,  to  give  him  a  new  heart  in  the 
place   of   his. 

MoRiENVAL.  Does  that  sort  of  thing  happen 
in  the  country.  Dr.  Richon? 

RiCHON.  Oh,  it's  quite  different  in  the 
country,  you  know  —  there,  we  love  our  work 
for  its  own    sake.     And  besides,  we    are  a  bit 


The  Escape  153 

friendly  with  our  patients.  In  fibreville,  al- 
most every  one  who  bows  to  me  on  the  street 
has  been  helped  into  the  world  by  me;  I  have 
been  present  at  their  weddings,  and  have  seen 
their   parents   die. 

La  Belleuse.  You  lose  a  great  many  of 
your  cases? 

RiCHON.  Not  any  more  than  one  does  here 
in  Paris.  I  realise  that  I  am  not  a  savant,  but 
I  have  seen  so  many  that  I  am  beginning  to 
know  them  a  little. 

MoRiENVAL.  And  are  you  perfectly  con- 
tented? 

RiCHON.  Heavens  —  I  hardly  dare  to  confess 
it  here  —  I  am  proud  of  being  a  physician  — 
I  always  feel  a  keen  pleasure  when,  after  I  have 
entered  a  patient's  room  and  found  every  one  in 
tears,  I  have  been  able  to  leave  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  have  given  a  little  hope.  For, 
you  know,  a  physician  cures  but  rarely,  reheves 
sometimes,  but  always  consoles.     The  patients  — 

La  Belleuse.  Ah,  the  patients!  For  all  the 
gratitude  that  they  show  — 

RiCHON.  Of  course  —  they  are  often  un- 
grateful. 

La  Belleuse.  Often!  Always,  you  meant 
to  say. 

RiCHON.  I  divide  them  into  two  classes: 
first,  those  whom  I  treat  gratuitously,  for  I  love 


154  Brieux 

to  do  that;  then  come  the  patients  who  pay  me. 
If  I  should  ask  for  remuneration  from  both  I 
should  feel  that  I  was  being  paid  twice.  And 
besides  —  my  patients  —  I  like  to  please  them 
—  that  helps  cure  them. 

La  Belleuse.  [To  Morienval]  He  belongs 
to  the  old  school. 

RiCHON.  [Who  has  not  heard]  I  graduated 
from   Caen. 

The  Doctor.  I  only  hope  that  there  are  a 
lot  of  physicians  like  you! 

RiCHON.  You  are  making  fun  of  me  now  — 
I  am  going  to  leave  at  once  —  you  see,  the  train 
will  not  wait  for  me. 

The  Doctor.  I  hope  to  see  you  again  one 
of  these  days,  Richon. 

[Richon  leaves.  La  Belleuse  and  Morienval 
laugh] 

La  Belleuse.     He's  a  fine  one! 

Morienval.     The  consolation  of  the  parents! 

La  Belleuse.  And  his  joy  —  his  joy  when 
his  patients  are  feeling  better! 

Morienval.  A  doctor  who  is  afraid  of  being 
paid  twice! 

La  Belleuse.  When  one  has  enough  trouble 
in  getting  paid  once! 

Morienval.     And  from  Caen! 

The  Doctor.  Come,  come  now!  You 
might  be  just  a  little  indulgent.     What  do  you 


The  Escape  155 

expect?  He  is  from  the  country  —  and  doesn't 
know! 

[Bertry   enters] 

Bertry.  How  do  you  do,  gentlemen. 
Kindly  pardon  the  intrusion.  [Softly  to  his 
brother]  Are  you  going  to  be  busy  much  longer 
with  these  gentlemen?  I  have  something  very 
important  to  tell  you! 

The  Doctor.     No,  we  have  quite  finished. 

[La  Belleuse  and  Morienval  hid  him  good-bye 
toith  much  ceremony] 

The  Doctor.  What  have  you  to  tell  me 
that  is  so  important? 

Bertry.     Jean  and  Lucienne  want  to  marry. 

The  Doctor.  I  thought  that  I  had  said 
once  for  all  that  I  was  opposed  to  their  mar- 
riage. 

Bertry.  Jean  is  in  a  terrible  state  of  ex- 
citement. He  knows  now  that  Lucienne  loves 
him. 

The  Doctor.  Lucienne  loves  him?  After 
all,  I  am  not  surprised:  degenerates  seek  each 
other  out.     And  what  did  you  say  to  it? 

Bertry.  I  saw  them  so  confident,  so  reso- 
lute, so  wrapped  up  in  their  happiness,  that, 
after  deliberation,  I  consented. 

The  Doctor.  You  haven't  any  more  balance 
than  they  have. 


156  Brieux 

Bertry.  Possibly!  Then  you  refuse  your 
consent? 

The  Doctor.     Absolutely 

Bertry.     And  why? 

The  Doctor.     Don't  you  really  know? 

Bertry.  You  consented  to  take  Lucienne 
under  your  roof  in  spite  of  her  mother,  and 
while  your  wife  was  still  living.  You  did  not 
then  consider  her  unworthy  to  enter  your 
family. 

The  Doctor.     It's  not  a  question  of  that. 

Bertry.     Kindly  explain  yourself. 

The  Doctor.  Very  well!  Before  a  year  is 
up  —  do  you  understand?  —  before  a  year  — 
Jean  will  have  committed  suicide  —  and  Lu- 
cienne — 

Bertry.     Albert ! 

The  Doctor.  My  poor  fellow,  I  do  not 
want  to  make  you  sad.  But  let  us  talk 
seriously,  since  it  is  a  question  of  the  happiness 
of  these  children,  and  do  not  take  anything  that 
I  may  say  as  a  reproach  for  past  conduct. 
Jean,  like  his  father,  is  nervous  and  melancholy. 
As  to  Lucienne,  understand  me  —  she  also 
has  a  heritage  which  prevents  her  from  marry- 
ing. 

Bertry.  [Crushed]  We  are,  then,  prisoners 
of  the  dead? 

The  Doctor.     You  have  said  it. 


The  Escape  157 

Bertry.  [Becomes  furious]  You'll  drive  me 
crazy  in  the  end  with  your  science,  your  hered- 
ity! So  men  are  nothing  but  unconscious 
brutes,    without    individuality,    without    will? 

The  Doctor.  You  don't  understand  any- 
thing about  such  things! 

Bertry.  Well,  take  us  for  example.  You 
and  I  are  sons  of  the  same  parents,  and  we 
should  resemble  one  another;   however  — 

The  Doctor.  There  are  such  things  as 
cross  heredity  —  there  is  atavism,  a  distant 
heredity. 

Bertry.  But  why  is  it  that  what  is  true 
for  us  is  not  true  for  them? 

The  Doctor.  It  could  have  been.  But 
one  needs  only  to  watch  them  for  an  hour  to 
see  that  they  are  just  like  their  parents. 

Bertry.  But  your  science  is  wrong  some- 
times;   and  there  are  always  exceptions. 

The  Doctor.  Very  few  —  Lucas,  Morel, 
Galton  and  I  have  observed  thousands  of  cases 
which  showed  the  laws  of  heredity  — 

Bertry.  And  how  many  cases,  where  these 
laws  were  shattered,  did  you  not  know  about? 
You  know  the  number  of  condemned  thieves 
whose  fathers  were  also  condemned,  but  you 
do  not  know  how  many  criminals  there  are 
whose  children  are  perfectly  honest.  And  even 
though  your  laws,  your  famous  laws,  might  have 


158  Brieux 

been  shattered  but  once,  even  though,  through 
all  of  your  observations  you  might  have  found 
but  one  vicious  man  whose  offspring  was  not 
vicious,  but  one  fool  whose  children  were  sane, 
I  tell  you  that  that  one,  that  one  and  only  case, 
should  have  stopped  you  from  publishing  on  the 
strength  of  such  doubtful  authority,  your  sin- 
ister and  bold  laws,  your  hopeless  laws,  which, 
perhaps,  have  succeeded  in  making  more  vicious 
and  insane  people  than  heredity  itself. 

The  Doctor.  What  matter  the  victims? 
We  believe  that  these  laws  are  true,  we  must 
therefore  formulate  them  — 

Bertry.  You  abuse  your  power  —  by  being 
despots  — 

The  Doctor.  Despots  who  are  not  afraid  of 
being  dethroned  — 

Bertry.  You  are  right.  Your  reign  is  not 
near  its  end.  You  are  the  good  gods  of  an 
atheist  people  which  has  no  other  ideal  than  the 
perfect  operation  of  its  digestive  organs.  You 
are  the  last  resource  of  credulity  in  this  epoch 
of  sham  scepticism. 

The  Doctor.  Go  on,  my  friend;  but  I  am 
waiting  until  you  feel  ill.  You  will  come  to 
me  as  every  one  else  does;  you  will  show  me 
your  tongue,  and  be  the  very  little  boy,  just 
like  all  the  others. 

Bertry.     That  will  prove  nothing!    Formerly, 


The  Escape  159 

sick  people  prayed  to  God  to  cure  them;  now 
that  they  do  not  believe  in  God  any  longer, 
they  believe  in  science,  even  more  than  you 
do,  and  you  have  inherited  the  power  of  the 
priests. 

The  Doctor.  Has  the  change  meant  any 
loss? 

Bertry.     I  think  so  —  now  they  pay. 

The  Doctor.     Oh,  oh !  —  They  pay ! 

Bertry.  They  "sell,"  if  you  wish  it  thus, 
they  sell  the  hope  of  a  future  life  that  is  less 
sad  than  this  one.  You,  you  are  the  ministers 
of  this  goddess  of  deception,  who  calls  herself 
science !  —  Medicine  — 

The  Doctor.  Do  not  speak  badly  of  medi- 
cine.    It  has  had  martyrs. 

Bertry.     Not  as  many  martyrs  as  victims! 

The  Doctor.     It  has  heroes. 

Bertry.  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do; 
but  for  a  Claude  Bernard,  a  Pasteur,  or  a  Doc- 
tor Roux,  whom  fame  has  reached  in  spite  of 
themselves,  locked  up  though  they  were  in 
laboratories,  for  a  certain  number  of  you  who 
are  modest  and  to  be  pitied,  there  are  enough  — 
others  —  drunk  with  success  and  no  longer 
human.  I  say  that  you  sow  terror  behind  you 
with  your  discoveries  of  new  maladies,  with  your 
descriptions,  your  prescriptions,  and  your  men- 
aces.    You   belittle   character   in   developing   in 


160  Brieux 

gigantic  proportions  the  fear  of  death.  You 
poison  all  our  pleasures,  all  our  actions,  all  our 
life. 

The  Doctor.     Our  patients  do  not  say  that. 

Bertry.  Your  patients!  I  know  them!  I 
know  your  faithful  patient;  he  sweats  fear 
from  every  pore;  all  wrapped  up  in  flannel, 
like  a  race  horse,  he  leads  a  shriveled  and  piti- 
able existence.  He  comes  to  you  to  find  out 
how  he  is  to  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and  even  love. 
You  have  invented  the  fear  of  microbes  — 

The  Doctor.  It  is  no  worse  than  the  fear  of 
hell! 

Bertry.  No!  Fear  for  fear  —  I  prefer  that 
—  for  it  has  at  times  stopped  evil,  while  your 
inventions  have  only  helped  to  multiply  egoists 
and  rogues. 

The  Doctor.  Go  on  talking.  Since  the 
time  of  Moliere  we  have  heard  many  others  and 
many  who  are  better.  As  far  as  this  concerns 
Jean  and  Lucienne,  it  is  useless  to  discuss  it 
any  longer.  I  refuse  my  consent  to  this  union, 
that  is  all  there  is  to  it! 

Bertry.  Very  well!  Then  you  shall  your- 
self give  your  decision  to  the  poor  children.  I 
haven't  the  heart  to  do  it. 

The  Doctor.     Very  well. 

[Bertry  goes  to  the  door  at  the  left  and  brings 
in  Lucienne  and  Jean] 


The  Escape  161 

The  Doctor.     My  children  — 

Jean.     You  refuse? 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  I  am  opposed  to  your 
marriage  because  I  think  that  you  two  would 
be  very  unhappy.     That  is  all  I  have  to  say. 

Jean.  But  we  are  absolutely  convinced  that 
the  only  means  we  have  to  escape  from  this  ter- 
rible fatality  that  our  parents  have  handed 
down  to  us,  is  to  join  our  forces  and  fight 
against  this  evil. 

Lucienne.  Yes,  we  fully  believe  that  by 
this  means  we  may  possibly  be  happy. 

The  Doctor.     I  refuse! 

Jean.  [Softly]  If  you  still  refuse  your  con- 
sent you  will  immediately  provoke  the  catastro- 
phe which  you  do  not  doubt  will  eventually 
happen. 

The  Doctor.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Jean.  I  swear  by  my  parents  to  do  what  I 
have  just  suggested:  If  you  do  not  consent  I 
shall  commit  suicide! 

Bertry.  Do  you  hear?  Now  do  you  still 
dare? 

Lucienne.     Be  merciful,  uncle! 

The  Doctor.  [Looks  at  them  very  resolutehj] 
I  give  in.  But  you  will  remember  that  I  have 
done  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  this  union.  J 
give  in,  but  I  do  so  only  under  threat! 

Lucienne.     Jean! 


162  Brieux 

Jean.  Do  not  be  afraid,  Lucienne,  we  will 
triumph!  I  have  never  felt  so  strong  before! 
The  life  that  I  refused  this  morning  —  the  life 
at  Libreville,  I  now  accept  it. 

Lucienne.  We  will  love  each  other!  And 
with  the  strength  of  our  love  we  will  escape 
from  this  prison,  in  spite  of  you,  my  uncle;  in 
spite  of  you,  our  gaoler! 

The  Doctor.     We  shall  see. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

A  corner  of  the  castle  park  at  Ebreville.  At 
the  right,  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  house;  at  the 
left,  the  servants^  entrance. 

Segard.  [Alone]  One  hundred  francs  that 
I'd  have  given  to  the  former  manager  —  but 
since  he  stole,  he  might  just  as  well  have  taken 
a  hundred  francs  more,  and  I'm  not  hurting  him 
any  by  keeping  it  —  four  hundred  francs  for 
the  dairy  promised  by  Madame  Belmont  —  one 
hundred  francs  for  repairs  —  that  makes  six 
hundred  —  so  there  are  two  hundred  coming  to 
me. 

[Jean  appears  on  the  steps  with  another  farmer 
whom  he  is  bidding  good-bye.  He  goes  out  at 
rear,  right,  after  saying:  "Good  day.  Monsieur 
Belmont."] 

Segard.  How  do,  monsieur.  You'll  have 
to  come  and  look  at  the  farm.  Madame  Bel- 
mont promised  us  some  repairs  —  you  can  ask 
her  if  she  didn't.  The  roof'U  be  falling  on  our 
heads  — 

Jean.  [He  is  very  gay  during  this  entire 
scene]     We'll   see. 

Segard.  The  bad  times  is  coming  —  the  sea 
wind  will  rip  it  off  as  if  it  were  a  bit  of  straw. 

163 


164  Brieux 

It's  not  for  me  that  I  want  it,  it's  for  my  wife 
and  children.  If  any  misfortune  should  come. 
Monsieur  Jean  —  they'd  make  you  pay  more 
than  it  was  worth,  that's  sure, 

Jean.     All  right,  I'll  look  at  it. 

Segard.     Come  with  me,  I  have  my  rig. 

Jean.  No,  I  haven't  had  anything  to  eat 
yet.  I'll  have  just  a  bite  and  then  I'll  follow 
you. 

Segard.     Then  you'll  not  come? 

Jean.     I'll  be  there  as  soon  as  you  will. 

Segard.     Sure? 

Jean.  I  promise  you.  Only  you  must  be  a 
little  reasonable  with  my  rabbits. 

Segard.  Your  rabbits !  —  your  rabbits !  — 
Get  an  expert,  sir!  Get  an  expert!  They've 
been  eating  my  wheat  since  the  beginning  of  the 
season  —  on  all  of  my  land  that  borders  on 
your  woods  —  why  one  day  the  mayor  even 
said  to  me,  says  he:  "Have  you  finished  with 
your  reaping  aheady,  Segard?" 

Jean.  But  why  do  you  sow  right  on  that 
bit  of  land  —  just  to  make  me  pay  you? 

Segard.  Oh,  monsieur!  I'm  not  malicious, 
but  it's  the  best  bit  of  land  I  own. 

Jean.  And  why  do  you  put  buckwheat  on 
the  next  field  —  to  attract  my  pheasants? 

Segard.  [Playing  the  fool]  Buckwheat? 
Pheasants?     Which  pheasants? 


The  Escape  165 

Jean.  You  know  very  well  that  buckwheat 
attracts  them. 

S^GARD.  Buckwheat  attracts  them  —  that's 
the  first  I  have  heard  of  it.  But  it's  true  they 
did  eat  my  buckwheat;  you  made  me  think 
of  it,  and  I  really  ought  to  make  a  claim  on 
you. 

Jean.     Ah,  not  really! 

Segard.     No,  I'll  not  do  it  —  I'll  not  do  it. 

Jean.  My  warden  told  me  that  you  had 
killed  six  since  the  opening  of  the  season. 

Segard.     Six  —  six  what?     Six  rabbits? 

Jean.     Six  pheasants. 

Segard.  Six  pheasants!  I  killed  six 
pheasants !  Ah,  good  Lord !  —  six  pheasants ! 
But  what  should  I  have  done  with  them? 
Do  you  suppose  that  poor  people  like  us  know 
how  to  eat  them  beasts?  Do  you  suppose  that 
we've  got  teeth  for  them  things?  What  should 
I  have  done  with  them?  I'll  not  leave  here 
until  you  tell  me  what  I  could  have  done  with 
them. 

Jean.  Oh,  all  right  —  all  right.  Will  you 
sell  me  your  two  bits  of  land? 

Segard.  The  wheat  and  the  buckwheat 
land? 

Jean.     Yes. 

Segard.  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,  Monsieur 
Belmont. 


166  Brieux 

Jean.     Why  not? 

Segard.  Because  selling  land  brings  bad 
luck. 

Jean.     You  sold  that  bit  at  Longpre. 

Segard.  That's  not  the  same  thing  —  that 
came  to  me  from  my  sister-in-law. 

[Jean  hursts  out  laughing.  At  this  moment 
Bertry     and     the     doctor     appear     on    the    steps] 

Jean.  So  instead  of  getting  rent  I  owe  you 
money? 

Segard.  It's  not  my  fault,  monsieur,  it's 
the  fault  of  them  rabbits.  Au  revoir.  [They 
shake  hands]  Au  revoir,  monsieur.  What  makes 
me  feel  bad  though  is  about  them  six  pheas- 
ants —  because  —  the  S6gards,  from  father  to 
son  — there  are  not  any  more  honest  in  the 
whole  country. 

Jean.  [Going  to  rear  of  stage  with  him]  I 
know  —  and  the  rent? 

Segard.  Well,  look  here  —  I  gave  one  hun- 
dred francs  to  the  manager  —  you  said  to, 
didn't  you? 

Jean.     What's  that? 

[They  go  out  left,  talking.  Bertry  and  the 
doctor  come  down  from  the  house  and  cross  the 
stage] 

Bertry.  Well  now!  Isn't  our  friend  Jean, 
whom  you  condemned  to  everlasting  melancholy, 
gay  enough?     All  that  was  needed  to  cure  him 


The  Escape  167 

was  for  him  to  forget  your  somber  predictions, 
fill  his  lungs  with  good  air,  and  become  inter- 
ested in  life  in  general.  Ha!  Your  famous 
science  —  your  infallible  science  —  for  once  it  is 
wrong!  It's  six  months  now  since  Jean  and 
Lucienne  were  married,  and  S'^e  how  happy  they 
are! 

The  Doctor.     Hum? 

Bertry.  Why  you'd  never  recognize  Jean 
again.  He  is  intensely  interested  in  his  work 
as  a  gentleman  farmer.  Yesterday  morning  I 
saw  him  come  in  at  nine  o'clock  after  having 
had  a  long  horseback  ride;  he  was  in  radiantly 
good  health  and  in  the  best  of  humor. 

The  Doctor.  Yes,  Jean  is  certainly  in  better 
condition.  He  is  happy  and  thinks  that  the 
whole  world  is.  Out  of  door  exercise  has  done 
him  a  world  of  good,  but  at  heart  he  is  still 
somber  and  jealous. 

Bertry.     Oh! 

The  Doctor.  You  haven't  noticed  anything, 
eh?  Why,  yesterday,  at  dinner:  Lucienne  was 
telling  about  her  young  neighbor,  who  came  to 
pay  her  a.  visit  when  she  was  all  alone;  then 
Jean's  face  suddenly  became  clouded  — 

Bertry.     That's  true! 

[Bertry  again  starts  pacing  up  and  down] 

Thr  Doctor.     And  Lucienne  is  bored. 

Bertry.     Oh ! 


168  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  At  first  she  played  the 
country  manor  lady,  looking  after  the  cultiva- 
tion of  her  grounds  and  her  kitchen  garden. 
She  promised  repairs  to  all  of  her  farmers,  and 
Jean  had  to  control  her  generosity.  Then, 
suddenly,  she  lost  all  interest  in  everything. 
She  is  bored. 

Bertry.  You  say  that  she  is  bored?  The 
misfortune,  the  misfortune  which  we  must  fear 
more  than  all  else,  you  understand  me,  is  that 
she  will  attribute  her  state  of  tedium  not  to  her 
idleness,  but  rather  to  her  destiny;  and  since 
she  will  believe  herself  condemned  in  advance, 
she  will  not  defend  herself,  she  will  not  react  as 
every  other  good  woman  would  do  in  her 
position.  And  if  she  is  ever  defeated  it  will  be 
because  of  the  cursed  ideas  you  have  put  in  her 
head,  and  not  on  account  of  heredity. 

The  Doctor.  I  wish  I  were  wrong;  but, 
sad  to  say,  you  see  that  the  very  things  that 
have  happened  here  only  go  to  prove  what  I 
said.     But  I  shall  never  see  the  final  result! 

Bertry.     What  do  you  mean? 

The  Doctor.     I  haven't  much  longer  to  live. 

Bertry.  Oh,  come  now.  I  thought  that 
you  were  feeling  better. 

The  Doctor.  The  pain  returns  and  gets 
worse  every  night. 

Bertry.     Just  what  do  you  feel? 


The  Escape  169 

The  Doctor.  All  of  a  sudden,  without  any 
premonitory  symptoms,  I  feel  a  terrible  pain 
around  my  heart.  Then  the  sensation  of  im- 
mediate death.  These  symptoms  make  me 
think  of  a  known  malady,  but  other  symptoms 
again  throw  me  entirely  ofif  the  track.  Once 
the  crisis  is  over,  I  fall  into  a  remarkable  physi- 
cal and  mental  depression;  then,  when  circula- 
tion is  reestablished  I  am  again  the  same  as 
before  my  attack,  with  all  my  will  power,  in- 
telligence — 

Bertry.     What  do  you  do  for  it? 

The  Doctor.  Nothing.  If  I  only  dared 
consult  Dr.  Richon. 

Bertry.     But  why  don't  you? 

The  Doctor.  He  would  think  that  I  was 
making  fun  of  him.  And  then,  —  but  let's  not 
talk  of  it  any  longer;  nothing  irritates  me  more 
than  to  have  to  think  of  it.  A  physician  must 
never  be  ill.  His  patients  are  such  egoists  and 
such  fools  that  they  lose  all  confidence  in  him 
after  he  has  once  been  ill.  They  want  to  cry 
out  to  him:  '*Cure  yourself,  healer!"  With 
absurd  logic  they  reason  that  if  we  do  not  know 
how  to  relieve  ourselves  we  are  ignoramuses. 
I  have  a  patient  here  in  fibreville  who  has  the 
same  sickness  that  I  have.  In  some  way  he 
guessed  that  I  too  was  ill.  And  you  cannot 
imagine  with  what  ferocity  he  asks  me  for  news. 


170  Brieux 

He  observes  me  with  mad  attention;  he  tries 
to  guess  from  my  face  whether  I  am  a  Httle 
better,  in  order  to  know  whether  I  have  dis- 
covered something  for  myself  by  which  he  can 
profit. 

Bertry.  I  know  who  it  is:  it's  Monsieur 
Brinvillard. 

The  Doctor.  You  are  right.  Some  time 
ago  I  had  a  period  of  rehef  from  my  complaint. 
Wanting  to  comfort  him  I  told  him  that  I  had 
really  found  a  new  remedy  for  his  ailment.  He 
believed  it,  the  fool,  he  believed  it!  And  he 
had  two  weeks  of  comfort,  while  I  never  suf- 
ered  so  much  during  my  whole  life  as  I  did 
then.     When  he  found  it  out,  he  left  me. 

Bertry.  He  has  changed  physicians  three 
times  since  then.  He  has  also  consulted  a 
homeopathist.  Do  you  know  what  he  is  doing 
now? 

The  Doctor.     No. 

Bertry.  He  is  consulting  a  sort  of  quack,  a 
healer,  a  shepherd  from  the  districts,  called  pere 
Guernoche. 

The  Doctor.  [Smiling]  He  was  sure  to 
come  to  that. 

[They  go  out  at  rear.  Rosalie  has  entered  at 
the  left.  She  sets  the  table.  Jean  enters  from 
the  left] 


The  Escape  171 

Jean.  Ah,  Rosalie,  so  the  manager  left  all 
the  farms  in  ruins? 

Rosalie.  You  must  not  listen  to  the  farm- 
ers, monsieur  —  they  are  all  thieves. 

Jean.     And  madame  —  is  she  up  yet? 

Rosalie.     I  think  so.     She  is  getting  dressed. 

Jean.  Very  well!  Lucienne!  Lucienne!  come 
down,  you  lazy  bones! 

[The  window  opens  and  Lucienne  appears] 

Lucienne.     What's  the  matter? 

Jean.     I  am  starved  —  are  you  coming  down? 

Lucienne.  Yes,  immediately.  [She  disap- 
pears] 

Jean.     Is  the  tea  ready? 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur. 

Jean.     And  my  soup? 

Rosalie.  [Laughing]  I  cannot  get  used  to 
seeing  you  eat  soup  in  the  morning  just  like  a 
real  farmer. 

Jean.  But  I  am  one,  Rosalie,  I  am  one. 
And  some  sausage,  eh?  with  good  fresh  butter. 
I've  been  up,  you  know,  since  six  o'clock. 
[Seeing  Lucienne  on  the  steps]  I  am  not  like 
madame  —  who  does  not  come  down  until  ten 
o'clock  — 

Lucienne.     What  do  I  do? 

Jean.     Good  morning,  my  dear. 

Lucienne.     Good  morning. 

[They   kiss   each   other.     Rosalie   goes   out,    but 


172  Brieux 

appears  off  and   on   during   the  following   scene] 

Jean.     Sit  down  —  let's  hurry ! 

\He  sits  on  the  left  side  of  the  table,  Lucienne 
opposite] 

Lucienne.     You  are  still  in  a  hurry? 

Jean.  I  should  think  so.  Pere  Segard  is 
waiting  for  me.  [To  Rosalie,  who  is  pouring 
Lucienne' s  tea]  Tell  them  to  hitch  up  the  buggy 
immediately. 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur.     [She  goes] 

Lucienne.     Let   us  go  for  a    horseback  ride. 

Jean.     Impossible,  my  dear. 

Lucienne.     Ah! 

Jean.  I  promised  Segard.  The  roof  may 
fall  on  their  heads  any  day,  you  know!  And 
then  I'm  going  to  lose  a  day  anyway  when  the 
Grandpres  come. 

Lucienne.  They  have  written  that  they  are 
not  coming. 

Jean.     Perhaps  they  are  ill? 

Lucienne.  No.  They  do  not  want  their 
"young  ladies"  to  come  into  contact  with  me. 
A  propos  of  I  don't  know  what,  I  heard 
Monsieur  Grandpre  the  other  day  cite  the 
proverb:    "Like  mother,   like    daughter." 

Jean.  You  silly  girl,  you're  getting  false 
notions  into  your  head. 

Lucienne.  No.  Only  I  think  of  what  my 
uncle  said. 


The  Escape  173 

Jean.  Oh,  nonsense!  But  since  they  are  not 
coming  I  shall  profit  by  that  fact  and  go  to 
Rouen  to  see  a  reaping-machine  binder  that  I 
have  heard  about. 

LuciENNE.     You  ought  to  take  a  rest. 

Jean.  Rest!  But  I  am  taking  a  rest  while 
I  am  doing  these  things.  You  see,  when  one 
takes  up  agriculture  one  has  not  a  minute  to 
oneself.  And  it  is  so  good  to  have  something 
to  do,  to  feel  that  one  is  really  living.  One  is 
either  happy,  or  one  is  hungry.  Ah,  here  is 
Rosalie!  [Rosalie  has  entered  with  some  sowp] 
Look  and  see  how  appetizing  it  is.  And  it 
smells  so  good! 

Rosalie.  You  eat  with  relish,  monsieur. 
[A  pause]  When  one  is  very  tired,  a  small 
bottle  of  wine  added  to  this  soup  is  very  good. 
—  I  am  just  mentioning  it  to  you!  Good  wine, 
of  course!  [Jean  and  Lucienne  laugh]  Don't 
you  want  some? 

Jean.     No  thank  you,  Rosalie. 

[Rosalie  leaves] 

Rosalie.  [As  she  goes  out,  aside]  What  a 
shame!  And  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  wine  cellar 
myself. 

Lucienne.  [Looking  at  Jean  in  a  friendly 
manner]     You  are  enjoying  it? 

Jean.  Heavens,  I  am  hungry  as  a  wolf! 
Do  you  know  what  I  have  done  this  morning. — 


174  Brieux 

First,  I  walked  to  the  Fonds-de-Chaux,  then,  to 
Charpentier's;  from  there  I  came  back  to  San- 
ville,  from  Sanville  to  the  Quartre-Chemins;  I 
was  back  here  at  nine,  and  saw  my  farmers. 
Today  is   Saint  Michel.     Did  you   know  that? 

LuciENNE.  No.  Haven't  the  Paris  papers 
come? 

Jean.  No,  but  you'll  find  the  Dieppe  Look- 
out  and  the  Agricultural  Progress  on  my  table. 

LuciENNE.  Thank  you.  Do  you  have  to 
do  all  these  things  yourself? 

Jean.  I  should  think  so!  And  besides,  I 
adore  it! 

LuciENNE.  As  a  matter  of  fact  —  you  leave 
me  quite  alone.  —  And  it  becomes  a  bit  tire- 
some. 

Jean.  But  why,  you  are  not  bored!  We 
are  very  happy.     Aren't  we? 

LuciENNE.     [Dreaming]     Yes. 

Jean.  Ah,  that's  better.  Good  butter  — 
a  bit  of  sausage  —  and  then  for  the  road  again! 
I  was  quite  tired  out! 

LuciENNE.     Why  didn't  you  ride  Poulette? 

Jean.  She  is  lame  —  I  think  I'd  like  a  bi- 
cycle. 

LuciENNE.  Ah,  yes.  Buy  one  for  me,  too, 
will  you? 

Jean.     To    make    up    for    the    fact    that   the 


The  Escape  175 

Grandpres  would  not  trust  their  daughter  to  us! 

[A  pause] 

LuciENNE.     Don't  you  miss  Paris  at  all? 

Jean.     Not  at  all!    Do  you? 

LuciENNE.  [Without  conviction]  No.  Per- 
haps —  I  should  like  to  receive  a  little  more 
company  here  —  only  —  [with  a  smile]  you  are 
so  jealous! 

Jean.  That's  true  —  but  that  is  because  I 
love  you!  so  much!  so  much! 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

[A  servant  enters  from  the  rear] 

The  Servant.  There  are  two  bicyclists  out- 
side and  a  lady  in  a  carriage  who  want  to  see 
you. 

LuciENNE.     Didn't  they  tell  you  their  names? 

The  Servant.     I  forgot  to  ask  them. 

Jean.  [Disappointed,  rising]  It's  Paul  de 
Maucour  and  his  wife,  and  Madame  de  Catteni- 
eres,  I'll  wager!  I've  a  good  mind  to  have  the 
maid  tell  them  that  we  are  not  at  home. 

LuciENNE.     Oh,  why? 

Jean.     Paul  irritates  me  with  his  — 

LuciENNE.     Some  more  jealousy! 

Jean.  You  are  right,  I  am  a  fool!  Then 
you'd  like  to  see  them? 

LuciENNE.  Heavens,  yes  —  and  besides  — 
perhaps  it  isn't  they  at  all. 

Jean.     I'm  quite  sure  it  is.     [To  the  servant] 


176  Brieux 

Did  you  notice  whether  there  was  a  lady  on  one 
of  the  bicycles? 

The  Servant.  I  think  so,  but  I  am  not 
quite  certain. 

Jean.     I'll  go  see. 

[He  goes  out  with  the  servant.  Lucienne  re- 
mains a  moment  alone;  she  stands  there  dreaming. 
Jean,  the  de  Maucours,  and  Mme.  de  Cattenieres 
enter,  Paul  and  his  wife  come  in  with  their  bi- 
cycles, and  are  in  riding  costume.  Mme.  de 
Cattenieres  wears  a  summer  gown.] 

Lucienne.  It  is  you!  Oh,  what  a  nice  sur- 
prise. 

Alice.     How  are  you? 

[Jean  takes  her  bicycle  and  leans  it  against 
the  wall] 

Lucienne.  And  you?  [They  embrace]  You 
come  from  Dieppe? 

Alice.     Yes. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  It  was  I  who  per- 
suaded them  to  come.  They  were  escorting 
me  in  the  English  buggy.  It  [is  charming.  [To 
Jean]     You  have  a  superb  view! 

Paul.  That  is  just  what  I  was  saying  to 
him. 

Jean.  You  are  not  going  away  immediately, 
are  you? 

Paul.     No. 


The  Escape  177 

Jean.  Then  let  me  take  your  bicycle  for 
you. 

Paul.  Slow  now  —  slow  now.  Not  in  the 
sun. 

Jean.     Here,  I've  put  it  in  the  shade. 

LuciENNE.  [To  Paul.]  We  have  often 
thought  of  you.  I  said  to  myself:  "  Won't 
they  come?" 

Alice.  [From  the  other  side  of  the  stage]  I 
could  not  make  Paul  decide  to  come. 

Paul.  [Softly  to  Lucienne]  Do  not  listen  to 
her;  we  almost  had  to  drag  her  here  by  force. 
—  [To  Jean]  I  saw  a  buggy  all  harnessed  in 
front  of  your  gate.     You  were  going  out? 

Jean.  Yes  —  to  see  one  of  my  tenants  — 
just  a  little  way  from  here. 

Paul.     He  has  tenants! 

Jean.     Would  you  like  to  come  with  me? 

Paul.  On  my  wheel?  Are  the  roads 
pretty? 

Jean.  Superb  —  and  I  have  a  pacer  who'll 
leave  you  way  behind  on  the  road. 

Paul.  Leave  me  behind  on  the  road!  We'll 
see  about  that! 

Jean.  Come  —  we'll  be  back  by  luncheon 
time. 

Lucienne.  That's  right.  Go  on.  The  three 
of  us  will  chat  while  you  are  gone. 

Paul.     Let's  go! 


178  Brieux 

[He  takes  his  bicycle,  and  goes  out  with  Jean] 

LuciENNE.  I  am  really  so  glad  to  see  you 
again ! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  are  pleasantly 
situated  here  —  a  beautiful  view. 

LuciENNE.  Yes,  don't  you  think  so?  When 
it's  clear  we  can  see  the  ocean,  there,  beyond 
Saint-Martin's  steeple. 

Alice.     Really? 

LuciENNE.  And  all  the  land  up  to  the  woods 
belongs  to  us  and  connects  with  the  park. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  That  ought  to 
bring  in  a  lot. 

LuciENNE.  Last  year  everything  sufiFered  a 
great  deal  on  account  of  the  droughts. 

Mme.  DE  Cattenieres.  Why  don't  they 
water  the  land  —  as  they  do  the  boulevards? 

LuciENNE.  You're  fooling.  But  let's  sit 
down.  [They  sit  around  the  table]  Tell  me 
about  Paris.     Is  there  anything  new? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Not  a  thing  has 
happened  since  Dr.  La  Belleuse's  affair. 

LuciENNE.     What  was  that? 

Mme  de  Cattenieres.     What  was  what? 

LuciENNE.  Why,  what  you  were  just  talk- 
ing about. 

Alice.     You  don't  know? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Of  course  Lucienne 
knows. 


The  Escape  179 

LuciENNE.     But  I  really  do  not. 

Alice.     She  doesn't  know! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     It's  not  possible! 

LuciENNE.     On  my  oath! 

Alice.     With  Madame  Longuyon. 

LuciENNE.     I  know  nothing  about  it. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Well,  my  dear,  at 
Paris  and  Dieppe  you'd  be  looked  upon  as  some 
sort  of  a  phenomenon. 

LuciENNE.     But  tell  me  about  it. 

Alice.  You  know  that  La  Belleuse  was 
Madame  Longuyon's  physician  and  friend. 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

Alice.  Well,  La  Belleuse,  jealous,  forbade 
Monsieur  Longuyon  — 

LuciENNE.     Oh ! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Exactly. 

LuciENNE.     And  Longuyon? 

Mme.  DE  Cattenieres.  He  did  as  he  was 
told. 

LuciENNE.  [Laughing]  Lord,  that  is  really 
funny. 

Alice.  But  wait,  wait!  [To  Mme.  de 
Cattenieres]  You,  my  dear,  you  can  tell  the 
rest  better  than  I  can. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  One  fine  day,  Ma- 
dame Longuyon  — 

LuciENNE.  The  situation  is  extremely  inter- 
esting —  for  this  dear  friend  — 


180  Brieux 

[Alice  and  Mme.  de  Cattenieres  burst  out 
laughing] 

Alice.     [Rising]     Exquisite!     Adorable! 

LuciENNE.     What  do  you  mean? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  do  not  know 
how  truly  you  speak. 

LuciENNE.     Really? 

Alice.  Isn't  it  delightful  to  live  in  a  city 
where  such  things  happen? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  One  can  well  say 
that  there  is  just  one  Paris! 

Alice.     But  didn't  you  really  know  about  it? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Tell  us  the  truth. 

LuciENNE.     I  knew  nothing  about  it. 

Alice.  But  how  do  you  exist,  my  dear,  how 
do  you  exist? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  see  a  lot  of 
people? 

LuciENNE.  No  one.  The  poor  country 
squires  around  here  are  very  straight  laced. 

Alice.  But  what  do  you  do  during  the 
whole  blessed  day? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Lucienne  spends  it 
with  her  husband. 

Lucienne.     No.     Jean  attends  to  his  affairs. 

Alice.     And  you  don't  get  bored? 

Lucienne.     No. 

Alice.  Do  you  realise  that  you  are  an  ab- 
solute heroine? 


The  Escape  181 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  When  are  you  com- 
ing to  the  city? 

LuciENNE.  We  may  go  to  Paris  tomorrow 
or  the  day  after  —  just  for  two  days.  My  uncle 
is  expecting  his  nomination  as  commander  any 
time  now,  and  he  will  invite  his  colleagues 
who  intend  giving  him  his  insignia.  There  will 
probably  be  dancing.  Dr.  La  Belleuse  has  re- 
mained in  Paris  to  arrange  everything. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  That  is  the  kind 
of  thing  he  can  do.  I  was  asking  when  you 
were  returning  for  good. 

LuciENNE.     We  do  not  intend  to  at  all. 

Alice.  You  are  going  to  spend  the  winter 
here? 

LuciENNE.     Why  not? 

Alice.  Well,  my  dear,  I  should  not  like  to 
be  in  your  place.  You  might  as  well  bury 
yourself  immediately. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Looking  about]  It's 
evidently  very  nice  here,  but  a  gilded  cage  is  a 
cage  nevertheless. 

Alice.     And  you  do  not  complain? 

LuciENNE.     I  am  very  happy. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Very  happy!  You'll 
be  back  in  Paris  within  three  months,  whether 
your  husband  wants  to  or  not. 

LuciENNE.  Why  do  you  think  that  I  cannot 
remain  here? 


182  Brieux 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Because  —  because, 
pretty  as  you  are,  with  the  worldly  tastes  that 
you  have,  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to 
waste  your  youth  out  here  in  the  country. 

LuciENNE.     But  if  I  like  it  very  much? 

Alice.  [Rising]  Oh,  come  now.  You  can 
never  convince  me  that  this  sort  of  life  would 
satisfy  you  indefinitely  —  you  above  all. 

LuciENNE.     [Dreaming]     I,  above  all! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  You  are  no  more 
suited  for  this  kind  of  life  than  I  would  be  for 
a  tavern  waitress.     Dr.  Bertry  was  right. 

LuciENNE.     [Still  dreaming]     Yes. 

Alice.  I  never  would  have  believed  that  you 
would  have  stayed  here  for  six  months  in  suc- 
cession. 

LuciENNE.  Heavens,  you  know  there  are 
days  when  I'd  give  a  lot  to  be  able  to  see  the 
omnibuses  of  La  Madeleine  or  the  pastry-shops 
of  the  Rue  Royal. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Of  course!  But 
what  sort  of  an  odor  do  I  smell? 

Alice.     I  don't  smell  anything. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  But  surely!  [Point- 
ing  to   Jean's   dish]     Is   that   it?     Oh,    horrors! 

Alice.     Why  yes  —  you  are  right. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Why,  it's  almost 
poisonous ! 

Alice.     The  garlic! 


The  Escape  183 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  I  was  just  saying 
to  myself:  "  But  where  can  that  odor  be  coming 
from?" 

LuciENNE.  [Very  much  confused,  stands  with- 
out moving]     Jean  has  just  eaten  here. 

Alice.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  eats 
thai?     And  what  was  there  inside? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Soup  — 

Alice.     Is  that  so,  Lucienne? 

LuciENNE.     Rosalie!     Rosalie! 

Rosalie.     Yes,  madame? 

Lucienne.  Can  you  never  learn  to  be  tidy! 
I  told  you  before  to  clear  the  table. 

Rosalie.     But  no,  madame. 

Lucienne.  Don't  talk  now,  but  take  the 
things  away. 

[Rosalie  clears  the  table] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Ha!  that  Jean! 
And  I  knew  him  as  such  a  poetic,  delicate, 
ethereal  person! 

Lucienne.  He  has  got  it  into  his  head  that 
he  wants  to  eat  as  the  farmers  do.  I  have  told 
him  a  thousand  times  that  I  think  it  is  ab- 
solutely ridiculous. 

Alice.  You  must  let  him  do  it  —  so  long  as 
he  does  not  ask  you  to  share  it  with  him. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  When  one  is  in 
love  — 

Lucienne.     [Laughing    a    forced    laugh]     Ah! 


184  Brieux 

Ah!  one  does  not  have   to    go    as  far    as    that. 
Shall  we  go  in? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  I  was  just  going  to 
ask  the  same  question. 

LuciENNE.  Come  in,  and  I'll  show  you  your 
rooms. 

[They  go  up  the  steps;  Lucienne  is  in  the  rear. 
Once  her  friends  are  inside  she  sighs  deeply  and 
follows  them] 

Rosalie.  She  never  told  me  to  clear  the 
table. 

The  Doctor.  [Enters]  Rosalie!  Has  Ma- 
dame Belmont  gone  out? 

Rosalie.     No,  monsieur! 

[The  doctor  goes  into  the  house.  Guernoche 
enters.] 

Guernoche.  Here  I  am,  just  the  same. 
But  I'm  positively  anxious  —  that  gentleman 
who  came  in  before  me,  who  was  he?  Was  it 
the  doctor? 

Rosalie.  Yes.  Come  quickly  and  see 
Justin. 

Guernoche.  Anxious  as  I  am,  I'd  rather 
not. 

Rosalie.  The  doctor  is  not  as  bad  as  that. 
And  besides  I  have  money  — 

Guernoche.  Yes !  I  feel  weak  —  abso- 
lutely weak. 

Rosalie.     I    know    what'll    fix    you!      Come 


The  Escape  185 

in.     Just  the  same  —  whan  I  think  that  you're 
nothing  but  a  shepherd  — 

GuERNOcHE.     Yes,  and? 

Rosalie.  And  that  you  are  cleverer  than  a 
doctor  who  has  been  studying  more  than  twenty 
years. 

Guernoche.  Cleverer  —  cleverer  —  no  —  but 
just  as  clever,  positively. 

[She  makes  him  enter  at  the  right.  Dr. 
Bertry  appears  on  the  steps  with  some  medical 
magazines  in  his  hand] 

The  Doctor.     Rosalie? 

Rosalie.     Monsieur? 

The  Doctor.     Madame  has  company? 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.  Couldn't  you  have  told  me? 
You  know  very  well  that  I  do  not  like  to  be 
with  all  those  gossips.  Didn't  a  telegram 
come? 

Rosalie.     No,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.     You  are  quite  sure? 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.  Who  was  that  man  who  just 
went  in? 

Rosalie.     He  is  —  you  saw    him,    monsieur? 

The  Doctor.     Who  is  it? 

Rosalie.     It  was  the  gardener. 

The  Doctor.  What  do  you  mean?  I  just 
met  the  gardener  at  the  gate. 


186  Brieux 

Rosalie.     Well!     It  is  pere  Guernoche. 

The  Doctor.     Pere  Guernoche? 

Rosalie.     The  physician,  not  the  shepherd. 

The  Doctor.  What  physician.?  What  shep- 
herd? 

Rosalie.  I'll  tell  you  everything,  monsieur, 
because  I  see  that  there  is  no  other  way  — 
Justin  — 

The  Doctor.     Is  dead? 

Rosalie.     No,  monsieur,  he  is  cured. 

The  Doctor.     What  do  you  know  about  it? 

Rosalie.     He  is  here. 

The  Doctor.     Justin  is  here! 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.  I  forbade  you  to  bring  him, 
didn't  I? 

Rosalie.     But  he  wanted  to  come  so  badly. 

The  Doctor.     And  he  stood  the  trip? 

Rosalie.  We  took  an  assistant,  and  I  also 
had  a  pillow  along. 

The  Doctor.  What  a  foolish  thing  you  did! 
He  might  have  died  twenty  times  during  the 
trip. 

Rosalie.     But  he  didn't  die  at  all. 

The  Doctor.  That  makes  no  difference. 
When  I  told  you  that  he  should  not  make  the 
trip  you  should  have  left  him  in  Paris. 

Rosalie.     But  —  since  he  is  cured. 

The  Doctor.     Who  treated  him? 


The  Escape  187 

Rosalie.     Pere  Guernoche. 

The  Doctor.     The  shepherd? 

Rosalie.     Yes,  monsieur. 

The  Doctor.  [Furious]  It's  discouraging  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  such  stupid  people! 
That's  a  fine  thing!  the  best  doctors  in  Paris 
tell  you  that  your  husband  is  lost,  and  you  put 
him  in  the  hands  of  a  charlatan,  an  ignorant 
and  stupid  sorcerer. 

Rosalie.  I  know  very  well  that  pere  Guer- 
noche is  not  as  clever  as  those  other  doctors. 

The  Doctor.  Then  why  did  you  entrust 
Justin's  life  to  him?  You  do  not  seem  to  un- 
derstand that  we  have  studied,  while  your  pere 
Guernoche  can  hardly  read  or  write. 

Rosalie.     He  can't  read  at  all. 

The  Doctor.     There,  you  see! 

Rosalie.     But  he  cured  Justin  just  the  same. 

The  Doctor.  I'll  have  to  see  him  to  believe 
it. 

Rosalie.     If  you  will  come  in,  monsieur. 

The   Doctor.     To  find    myself   face   to  face 
with    doctor    Guer  —  with    pere    Guernoche  — 
Never ! 

Rosalie.  But  you  see  he  really  did  cure  my 
husband!  Justin  eats  and  drinks  now  like 
every  one  else,  and  he  is  beginning  to  get  up. 

The  Doctor.  And  how  did  he  cure  him, 
this  pere  Guernoche? 


188  Brieux 

Rosalie.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,  monsieur. 
By  giving  him  some  of  his  elixir  and  elec- 
tricity —  because  the  maladies,  he  says  — 

The  Doctor.  [Bursts  out  laughing]  That's 
enough  —  I'll  believe  all  when  I  see  Justin. 

[At  this  moment  Justin  appears,  opening  the 
door  for  pere  Guernoche] 

Rosalie.  Here  you  are,  monsieur;  here  is 
my  husband  —  with  pere  Guernoche.  You  can 
see  that  he  is  cured. 

[Justin  immediately  goes  into  the   house  again] 

The  Doctor.  By  Jove,  it's  true  —  [To  pere 
Guernoche]     Come  over  here,  you! 

Guernoche.  Excuse  me,  I'm  in  a  great 
hurry,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  doctor. 

The  Doctor.  Oh,  come  now!  I  asked  you 
to  come  here.  Leave  us,  Rosalie.  [To  Guer- 
noche]    Well,  my  dear  colleague! 

Guernoche.  What's  that  you're  calling  me, 
monsieur? 

The  Doctor.  Do  you  know  what  your  trade 
wUl  lead  you  to? 

Guernoche.  The  trade  of  being  a  shepherd 
—  that  doesn't  bring  me  in  enough  to  pay  my 
rent  —  positively. 

The  Doctor.  I'm  not  speaking  of  that,  I'm 
speaking  of  the  other  thing. 

Guernoche.  Oh,  you  want  to  know  when 
I'm  going  to  build  my  barn? 


The  Escape  189 

The  Doctor.  Now  stop  your  fooling. 
You  cure  sick  people,  my  gay  fellow,  don't  you? 

GuEBNOCHE.  I  don't  cure  'em,  they  cure 
themselves. 

The  Doctor.  What  do  you  do  to  your 
patients? 

GuERNOCHE.  Practically  nothing.  They  must 
want  to  be  cured,  and  once  they  think  about 
it,  it's  all  done. 

The  Doctor.  [Aside]  He  has  more  sense 
than  he  thinks.  So  you  only  cure  nervous 
complaints? 

Guernoche.  I  take  charge  of  no  one,  no 
one,  positively. 

The  Doctor.  Don't  finesse,  now.  You  are 
making  fun  of  me  with  that  foolish  air  you  put 
on. 

Guernoche.  I!  My  Lord!  my  Lord! 
You  tell  me  that  at  my  age  —  at  seventy  years 
and  three  months! 

The  Doctor.  It  may  cost  you  very  dear  in 
the  end. 

Guernoche.     Very  dear? 

The  Doctor.  Yes.  A  fine  and  jail,  —  you 
know  it  very  well. 

Guernoche.  Not  at  all.  Ah!  You  mean 
to  say  that  I  practice  medicine? 

The  Doctor.     Of  course! 

Guernoche.     You    are   wrong.     The    physi- 


190  Brieux 

cian  gives  medicines  — ■  I  give  nothing  — •  I  look 
at  them  and  they  are  cured.  Is  it  forbidden  to 
look  at  people? 

The  Doctor.     No. 

GuERNOCHE.     Well  then? 

The  Doctor.  Who  gave  you  the  idea  of 
looking  at  them  in  order  to  cure  them,  as  you 
put  it? 

GuERNOCHE.  Well,  it's  this  way.  I  was  a 
shepherd  and  cared  for  Monsieur  de  Grandpre's 
sheep.  He  lives  over  there,  in  back  of  the 
Laurents,  whose  father  was  mayor  of  fibreville. 
You  know,  on  the  road  up  to  Hautmont? 

The  Doctor.     Go  on,  go  on. 

GuERNOCHE.  They  used  to  accuse  me  of 
sorcery,  and  so  on  and  so  forth  —  because  I'm 
not  talkative,  on  account  of  my  being  alone 
from  morning  till  night  up  there  on  the  hills 
with  my  sheep  —  and  that  doesn't  make  a  per- 
son very  talkative  — 

The  Doctor.     Yes,  yes. 

GuERNOCHE.  One  day,  when  I  was  coming 
back  to  the  house  I  saw  Baffieu's  daughter  on 
the  road.  She  was  writhing  and  howling  as  if 
she  were  possessed  of  the  devil.  I  looked  at 
her,  she  looked  at  me,  and  she  got  scared.  I 
cried  as  loud  as  I  could:  "Be  quiet!"  and  she 
was  cured.  After  that  when  there  were  other 
sick   people  they   were   always  brought  to  me. 


The  Escape  191 

Not  wanting  to  get  into  a  spat  with  them  I  did 
what  I  could  to  cure  'em,  and  they  were  all 
cured,  positively.  I  did  like  this  to  'em  — 
[He  makes  a  few  passes  with  his  hands]  —  with- 
out knowing  —  just  to  do  something.  And  one 
day  when  I  was  at  Rouen  I  saw  a  magician,  and 
then  I  understood  that  I  cured  by  electricity. 
There  you  are! 

The  Doctor.  And  not  one  of  your  patients 
has  ever  died? 

GuERNOCHE.  Not  ouc,  provided  that  I  didn't 
give  'em  any  medicine  — 

The  Doctor.     And  why  are  they  cured? 

GuERNOCHE.  Well,  you  know  —  I've  thought 
it  all  over  with  my  sheep  out  in  the  fields  —  and 
I've  decided  that  it's  electricity,  my  electricity, 
—  because,  you  see,  there  are  two  kinds  of 
maladies:  when  one's  humors  and  one's  blood 
get  mixed,  and  when  one's  blood  turns  into 
water;  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do,  don't 
you?  You've  seen  how  foolish  people  are  when 
they're  sick. 

The  Doctor.     Of  course! 

GuERNOCHE.  And  it's  only  us  that  knows 
it,  positively. 

The  Doctor.  Enough  now!  Leave  me 
alone.  Go  now.  And  don't  let  me  find  you 
here  again! 

GuERNOCHE.     I'll  do  what  I  can,  doctor! 


192  Brieux 

[He  moves  away] 

The  Doctor.  [Aside]  Suggestion.  The 
zouave  Jacob.  [To  Guernoche]  Tell  me,  have 
you  ever  cured  people  who  have  wounds, 
tumors? 

GuEENOCHE.     I've  ucvcr  seen  any. 

The  Doctor.  And  if  a  person  thus  afflicted 
came  to  you? 

Guernoche.  If  one  came?  [He  reflects 
deeply,  looking  at  the  doctor]  If  one  of  'em  came, 
I'd  send  him  to  you,  doctor,  positively. 

[He  leaves] 

LuciENNE.  [Coming  down  the  steps]  How  do 
you  do,  uncle? 

The  Doctor.     Have  you  a  telegram  for  me? 

LuciENNE.     No! 

The  Doctor.  That's  queer!  My  nomina- 
tion must  have  appeared  in  the  official  list! 

LuciENNE.  Do  you  know  that  Madame  de 
Cattenieres  is  here? 

The  Doctor.     Yes. 

LuciENNE.  She  entreats  you  to  come  and 
see  her. 

The  Doctor,  A  consultation  in  the  country. 
Will  she  never  leave  me  in  peace? 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  come  now,  you  cannot  avoid 
her  —  now  go  to  her  with  good  grace. 

The  Doctor.  She  ought  to  see  pere  Guer- 
noche. 


\ 


The  Escape  193 

LuciENNE.  Don't  say  that;  he  could  cure 
her. 

The  Doctor.  Ah!  —  so  you  too,  you  too 
believe  in  pere  Guernoche? 

LuciENNE.  Why  of  course  —  he  cured  Jus- 
tin — 

The  Doctor.  [Furious]  He  cured  Justin! 
He  cured  Justin!  They'll  deafen  me  with  that 
cry!  He  cured  Justin!  Do  you  know  why  he 
cured  Justin.'*     Because  Justin  was  not  ill! 

LuciENNE.     But  you  had  given  him  up. 

The  Doctor.  Possibly,  but  he  was  not  ill. 
He  had  an  idea  that  he  was  ill,  and  he  thought 
of  it  so  much  that  he  would  have  died  from  it. 
But  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him. 
If  there  had  been  anything  the  matter  with 
Justin  you  can  be  very  sure  that  your  pere 
Guernoche  could  never  have  cured  him.  It  is 
purely  suggestion.  Justin  got  the  idea  into  his 
head  that  he  was  ill,  Guernoche  made  him  be- 
lieve that  he  was  cured,  and  that's  the  way  pere 
Guernoche  cured  him.  And  I  do  not  want  to 
hear  any  more  about  it,  do  you  understand! 
Why,  it  doesn't  hold  water!  [He  puts  his  hand 
to  his  heart]  I  see  I  am  wrong  to  work  myself 
into  a  fury.     [He  sits  down] 

LuciENNE.  I  wanted  to  ask  your  advice 
about  something  —  about  my  health  —  I  feel 
nervous  —  crushed  —  sad  without  any  reason. 


194  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  Make  Jean  take  you  back  to 
Paris. 

LuciENNE.     He  wants  me  to  remain  here. 

The  Doctor.     He  is  wrong. 

LuciENNE.  Don't  you  think  that  with  a 
little  will  power  I  could  overcome  my  malady 
—  which  is,  above  all,  a  moral  malady? 

The  Doctor.  Will  power!  —  So  you  are  an- 
other who  thinks  that  we  have  a  little  spring 
in  us  that  we  can  press  on  at  will,  and  which 
allows  us  to  modify  ourselves?  No,  no.  We 
have  no  power  over  ourselves.  We  are  nothing 
but  results  and,  when  we  think  that  we  are 
acting  from  our  inner  impulse  we  are  only  giv- 
ing way  to  a  stronger  impulse  than  all  others. 
Return  to  Paris  and  you  will  feel  better.  [He 
rises  and  walks  up  the  steps.  He  stops,  out  of 
breath]  I  cannot  go  up  more  than  four  steps  at 
a  time  now  without  stopping!  [He  sighs  deeply 
and  enters  the  house] 

LuciENNE.  "We  are  nothing  but  results!" 
Oh,  I  am  so  bored! 

[A  moment  later  Paul  enters  from  the  rear] 

Paul.  [Coming  up  to  Lucienne]  How  do 
you  do! 

LuciENNE.  Ah!  You  frightened  me!  You're 
back  already! 

Paul.     Yes. 

LuciENNE.     Alone?     You  could  not  keep  up? 


The  Escape  195 

Paul.  Keep  up?  Why,  I  would  have 
beaten  Jean  if  a  part  of  my  bicycle  hadn't 
broken. 

LuciENNE.     You  have  my  deepest  sympathy. 

Paul.  You  are  too  good.  But  what  are 
you  thinking  of?     You  are  not  very  gay! 

LuciENNE.  You  are  mistaken.  I  was  here 
alone. 

Paul.     All  alone? 

LuciENNE.     All  alone!     [A  pause] 

Paul.  You  say  that  you  pity  me,  Lucienne; 
but  I  think  it's  rather  you  who  needs  the  pity. 

LuciENNE.     I? 

Paul.     Yes. 

LuciENNE.     Why? 

Paul.     Because  you  are  not  happy. 

LuciENNE.     But  — 

Paul.     I  know  it. 

LuciENNE.     I  love  Jean  —  he  loves  me. 

Paul.  Yes,  he  loves  you  —  but  not  enough. 
He  spends  more  time  with  his  farmers  than 
with  you.  Ah,  Lucienne!  we  two  would  have 
been  so  happy! 

LuciENNE.     [Troubled]     We  two? 

Paul.  Yes,  Alice  is  not  the  sort  of  a  wife 
that  I  should  have.  Ah,  if  it  could  only  be 
done  all  over  again!  And  to  think  that  I  loved 
you  so! 

LuciENNE.     No,  Paul,  you  never  loved  me!    ' 


196  Brieux 

Paul.  Oh  yes,  I  swear  that  I  loved  you! 
It  is  you  who  never  loved  me! 

LuciENNE.     [Forgetting  herself]     I? 

Paul.     [Approaching  her]     Lucienne! 

LuciENNE.  [Collecting  herself]  Come,  my 
friend,  let  us  not  talk  of  the  past.  All  that  is 
over  and  nothing  can  be  done  now.  Besides, 
you  are  mistaken.  I  am  very  happy  with 
Jean  —  because  I  have  enough  sense  to  under- 
stand that  Jean  has  other  things  to  do  than  to 
lie  at  my  feet  and  sigh  deeply  all  day  long. 
Let's  not  think  of  that  any  longer.  Let  us  be 
friends,  good  friends,  if  you  wish  —  and  speak 
of  something  else  —  of  bicycling. 

Paul.     No!     I  want  to  tell  you  — 

Lucienne.  If  you  do  not  care  to  speak 
about  bicycling  I  shall  go. 

Paul.     Very  well.     Ask  me  questions. 

Lucienne.  Good!  Do  you  find  riding 
amusing? 

Paul.  Yes.  One  has  the  sensation  of  speed, 
of  a  speed  without  fear,  and  one  which  can  be 
controlled.  The  wind  blows  into  one's  face: 
one  drinks  in  the  air,  becomes  intoxicated. 
And  it  is  so  delicious.  [Going  to  Alice's  bi- 
cycle, he  bends  down]  See,  here  is  where  my 
bicycle  is  broken. 

Lucienne.  [Who  has  followed  him]  Is  it 
hard  to  sit  on? 


The  Escape  197 

Paul.     Not  at  all.     Would  you  like  to  try? 

LuciENNE.     I  so  want  to  learn. 

Paul.     Try  it. 

LuciENNE.     No  —  I'd  fall. 

Paul.     You'll  not  fall  —  I'll  hold  you  on. 

LuciENNE.     If  you  should  let  go. 

Paul.     But  I  won't. 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  but  besides,  I'd  have  to  have 
a  costume  like  Alice's. 

Paul.  That  is  not  at  all  necessary  —  this  is 
a  lady's  wheel.  [He  moves  the  pedals  into  po- 
sition] Put  your  foot  there.  No,  not  that 
one  —  the  left  one.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  am 
holding  you.  There  we  are!  \He  is  in  front  of 
the  bicycle] 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  it's  fine  —  but  don't  let  me 
go! 

Paul.     You  need  not  worry.     [A  pause] 

LuciENNE.  [Laughing]  I'm  afraid  I'm  go- 
ing to  fall. 

Paul.  Don't  be  frightened,  I  tell  you.  [A 
pause] 

LuciENNE.  [With  a  cry]  Ah,  I'm  falling, 
I'm  falling!  [To  save  herself  from  falling  she 
instinctively  puts  her  arm  around  PauVs  neck.] 
I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  felt  myself  going.  I'm 
heavy,  am  I  not? 

Paul.  [His  voice  changed]  No.  It's  be- 
cause you  are  frightened.     Try  it  again. 


198  Brieux 

LuciENNE.     No.    I  want  to  get  off. 

Paul.     Why?      You  are  all  right.      [A  pause] 

LuciENNE.  [To  Paul,  who  has  his  arm  about 
her  waist)  You  are  holding  me  too  tight.  I 
want  to  get  off.  Paul,  let  me  get  off,  I  want 
to. 

Paul.     [Softly]     I  love  you,  Lucienne. 

LuciENNE.  [Troubled]  Ah,  Paul,  that  is  bad, 
that  is  bad. 

[She  glides  off  into  his  arms] 

Paul.     I  love  you,  I  love  you! 

LuciENNE.  [Defending  herself  feebly]  Let  me 
go,  Paul,  let  me  go! 

Paul.     I  love  you! 

[Lucienne  is  in  a  sort  of  swoon.  Paul  embraces 
her] 

LuciENNE,  Oh,  this  is  wrong  —  this  is  very 
wrong  —  [She  frees  herself  and  stops  Paul  with  a 
gesture]     I  beg  you  ■ — 

Paul.     Lucienne ! 

(They  are  a  few  paces  apart,  still  ill  at  ease, 
when  Jean  enters] 

LuciENNE.  [Aside]  My  God,  what  have  I 
done!     what  have  I  done!     Well,  he  was  right! 

Jean.  [Happily]  Ha,  ha,  Mr.  bicyclist!  You 
who  were  going  to  beat  my  horse.  —  [  To  Lu- 
cienne, laughing]  Did  he  tell  you  what  hap- 
pened? —  Make  fun   of  him  a  little,  Lucienne. 

LuciENNE.     Really,  Monsieur  de  Maucour.  — 


The  Escape  199 

[She  tries  to  laugh  and  stops,  not  knowing  what 
to  say.     But  Jean  does  not  notice  it] 

Jean.  [To  Paul]  It's  too  bad  that  you 
didn't  come  with  me  to  see  pere  Segard  — 

[While  talking  he  looks  from  Lucienne  to  Paul. 
He  notices  that  they  are  ill  at  ease.  Gradually 
he  becomes  jealous  and  his  gayety  leaves  him.  A 
pause.  He  is  waiting  for  a  laugh  that  does  not 
come] 

Jean.  "The  roof  will  be  falling  on  the  heads 
of  my  children."  But  do  you  know  which 
roof  was  damaged? 

Lucienne.  [Who  has  not  been  listening  to 
him]     No.     Which  one? 

Jean.     [Very  seriously]     The  stable. 

Lucienne.  [Forcing  a  laugh]  That's  very 
funny. 

Jean.  Isn't  it?  [To  Luciennt]  Doesn't  that 
make  you  laugh? 

Lucienne.     Why  yes. 

Jean.  After  all  —  I  see  that  you  are  not 
interested.  [To  Paul]  Have  you  been  here 
long? 

Paul.  Yes.  Your  wife  and  I  have  been 
chatting,  and  now  I  see  that  I  have  hardly 
enough  time  to  change  for  luncheon.  Will  you 
excuse  me? 

[He  goes  out.  Jean  becomes  a^ain  as  he  was 
in  the  first  a^t] 


200  Brieux 

Jean.  [After  a  pause]  What  were  you  talk- 
ing about  —  you  —  and  Paul? 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  nothing  —  of  one  thing  and 
another. 

Jean.     You  have  already  forgotten? 

LuciENNE.  No.  But  it  was  of  so  little  im- 
portance. 

Jean.     Tell  me  just  the  same. 

LuciENNE.  We  were  speaking  —  of  his  wife 
—  of  Alice. 

Jean.     And  what  else? 

LuciENNE.     And  —  that  was  all ! 

Jean.     [Looking  at  her]     Truly? 

LuciENNE.  Why,  you  are  putting  me 
through  a  cross  examination! 

Jean.  Yes  —  yes,  Lucienne  —  [A  pause]  Oh, 
come!  I  am  not  blind!  I  noticed  that  you 
were  both  ill  at  ease.      And  why? 

LuciENNE.     Ill  at  ease? 

Jean.  Be  frank,  Lucienne.  Tell  me  the 
truth.  I  want  to  know  it  —  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  having  spoken  as  I  did.  It  was  simply  the 
old  complaint.  The  sadness  that  I  thought  I 
had  cured  —  and  which  does  not  exist.  Above 
all,  do  not  lie  to  me  —  above  all,  do  not  lie. 
He  paid  you  some  compliments.       Answer  me. 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

Jean.     You    doubtless  spoke  of    the  past? 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 


The  Escape  201 

Jean.  And  after  that?  —  [A  pause]  Perhaps 
he  took  you  in  his  arms,  and,  in  spite  of  you, 
kissed  you.  [Lucienne  nods.  Jean  becomes  ex- 
cited] And  you  did  not  cry  out?  And  you  did 
not  send  him  away? 

Lucienne.  Pardon  me,  Jean  —  pardon  me 
—  I  lost  my  head.  I  did  not  know  where  I 
was.      For  just  a  moment  I  was  mad. 

Jean.  [Laughing  nervously]  Ah!  ah!  A  mo- 
ment of  madness!  That  is  your  excuse,  you 
women!  At  least  have  the  courage  to  confess. 
Confess  that  you  love  him! 

Lucienne.     No! 

Jean.  You  love  him,  I  say!  Weren't  you 
to  marry  him? 

Lucienne.     I  do  not  love  him! 

Jean.  But  why  he  about  it?  Isn*t  it  evi- 
dent? Didn't  I  see  you  two  on  the  very  day 
that  I  confessed  my  love  for  you?  Didn't  I 
see  you  speaking  together?  Didn't  I  see  you 
smile  when  he  whispered  something  in  your  ear, 
while  he  gazed  at  you  tenderly  all  the  while? 
And  your  hands!  You  do  not  dare  to  tell  me 
that  they  have  not  held  his  secretly!  You  do 
not  dare,  because  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen! 
And  when  he  came  today  didn't  you  suddenly 
become  happy?  Wasn't  it  you  who  made  me 
receive  him?  Answer  me!  Who  knows  but 
what  you  were  even  expecting  him? 


LIBRARY 

flTATE  TEACH-eRS   COwLTOt 
SANTA    BARBARA     CALIFORNIA 


202  Brieux 

LuciENNE.  Jean,  be  careful  of  what  you  say! 
Do  not  accuse  me,  do  not  crush  me.  Perhaps 
I  was  a  bit  foolish;  and  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Grant  me  this  pardon  without  insisting  any 
more.  Help  me,  Jean,  I  beg  you,  help  me!  I 
am  in  the  midst  of  a  crisis:  I  do  not  know 
where  I  am  going,  I  do  not  know  where  I  shall 
be  tomorrow.  You  can  still  save  me,  you  can 
still  save  me.     Help  me! 

Jean.  You  are  afraid  of  yourself!  You  con- 
fess it!     You  see  that  you  confess  it! 

LuciENNE.  Yes,  it  is  true,  I  am  afraid  of 
myself. 

Jean.  But  you  do  not  seem  to  understand 
that  loving  him  would  be  your  only  excuse! 
If  you  did  not  love  him  what  a  woman  you 
would  be! 

LuciENNE.  My  husband,  have  pity  on  me! 
Have  pity  on  me,  Jean! 

Jean.  Go  away!  Leave  me!  All  is  broken! 
All  is  over!  Ah!  the  fond  dream  —  the  fond 
dream  that  was!  I  now  find  myself  the  un- 
fortunate man  I  was  before  I  married  you. 
Married  you!  —  I  thought,  that  by  the  power 
of  my  love  I  could  soften  you,  and  make  you  a 
faithful  and  respectable  wife;  I  thought  that  I 
could  lift  your  heart  high  above  these  worldly 
flirtations,  and  you  set  yourself  to  this  task  with 
me!     But    instead    of    our    purpose    being    ac- 


The  Escape  203 

complished,  if  luck  had  not  led  me  to  discover 
your  intrigue  in  the  beginning,  you  would  have 
lived  this  lie,  and  would  have  given  me  your 
kisses,  and  he  would  have  given  me  his  hand. 
You  would  have  deceived  me  in  a  cowardly 
way!  And  when  you  were  satiated  with 
caresses  you  two  would  have  laughed  at  me! 

LuciENNE.  [Crying  out]  Enough,  Jean! 
enough!  it  is  false!  it  is  false!  I  love  you!  pity 
me!  I  love  you! 

Jean.  Ah,  yes,  you  would  have  laughed! 
You  would  not  have  been  the  only  ones,  and  I 
know  very  well  what  they  would  have  said. 

LuciENNE.     [Taking  his  hands]     What.-^ 

Jean.     That  they  were  expecting  it! 

LuciENNE.  [Stifling  a  cry]  Ah !  —  [In  a  cold 
voice]  Now  all  is  over!  You  have  pronounced 
the  irreparable  word,  and  you  have  killed  our 
love! 

Jean.  No,  Lucienne,  no,  my  wife!  No! 
Forget,  forget  what  I  just  said!  I  ask  your 
pardon!  You  know  you  should  forgive  me  — 
you  know  what  an  unhappy  man  I  am,  and  how 
I  have  suffered  my  whole  life!  You  ought  to 
have  pity  for  all  my  misery,  Lucienne,  and  for- 
get, and  forgive;  I  have  always  loved  you  and  I 
make  you  suffer.  My  darling,  I  made  you 
suffer;    forgive  me!  forgive  me! 

[He  sobs  and  sits  down  at  the  table] 


204  Brieux 

LuciENNE.  [Impassively]  I  have  nothing  to 
forgive.  You  made  clear  the  truth  that  I  did 
not  want  to  see.  You  were  right,  we  were  de- 
ceived, and  I  was  wrong  in  thinking  that  I 
could  love  you.  Ah!  but  I  wanted  to  so  badly, 
I  wanted  to  with  all  the  power  I  possessed; 
but  I  am  not  free,  I  am  not  free!  I  wanted  to 
escape  from  myself,  and  I  fell  back  heavily,  and 
I  am  broken  —  I  have  been  bored  for  quite 
some  time  now;  I  yearned  for  Paris,  for  the 
balls,  the  people;  and  I  hoped  that  this  ennui 
was  only  passing,  but  now  I  clearly  see  that  it 
is  my  nature  that  is  revolting,  and  just  one  un- 
expected contact  was  enough  to  make  me  defence- 
less against  Paul,  whom  I  no  longer  love.  And 
it  is  not  my  fault,  it  is  fatal!  It  is  stronger 
than  I,  it  is  stronger  than  I!  Yes,  let  us  weep, 
Jean,  let  us  weep!  We  are  very  unfortunate, 
very  unfortunate! 

[They  both  weep] 

Jean.  It  is  my  fault,  Lucienne!  I  should 
not  have  married  you,  since  I  could  not  love 
you  as  you  wanted  to  be  loved.  But  it  is  not 
my  fault  either. 

Lucienne.  They  told  us,  Jean!  There  are 
prisons  from  which  there  is  no  escape !  — 
[Changing  her  voice]  Well,  since  it  is  inevitable, 
since  it  was  definite  even  before  my  birth,  it  is 


The  Escape  205 

useless  to  struggle  any  longer!  —  and  I  too  am 
going  to  be  happy! 

[Dr.  Bertry  appears  on  the  steps  with  a  telegram 
in  his  hand\ 

The  Doctor.  Jean!  Lucienne!  I  have  the 
telegram!      My  nomination! 

Lucienne.  Ah  yes!  You  have  triumphed! 
You  have  triumphed !  —  completely ! 

CURTAIN. 


ACT   III. 

[A  drawing  room  in  Dr.Bertry^s  house  in  Paris. 
Jean  is  talking  to  Dr.  Richon] 

Jean.  La  Belleuse  stayed  here  to  prepare  for 
this  celebration.  As  soon  as  Dr.  Bertry  re- 
ceived the  telegram  telling  him  of  his  nomina- 
tion, he  left  for  Paris  and  asked  Lucienne  and 
me  to  accompany  him.  [La  Belleuse  has  come 
in  at  the  left.  He  mops  his  brow  like  a  man 
who  has  just  done  some  hard  toork,  and  finally 
sits  down.     He  is  wearing  the  Legion  of  Honor] 

Richon.  [Softly  to  Jean]  Here  is  Dr.  La 
Belleuse. 

La  Belleuse.  [Who  has  sunk  into  a  large 
armchair]  Ouf!  —  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
I  can  do  no  more,  I  can  do  no  more.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  much  trouble  I  had  to 
get  up  this  spontaneous  manifestation  of  which 
Dr.  Bertry  is  at  this  moment  the  object! 

[A  short  pause.  Suddenly  he  trembles,  rises, 
touches  an  electric  bell.  As  no  one  appears  im- 
mediately he  rushes  to  the  door  at  the  left.  The 
servant  enters  just  at  this  time] 

La  Belleuse.     Where  are  the  guests? 

The  Servant.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the 
small  salon. 

206 


The  Escape  207 

La  Belleuse.  For  the  giving  out  of  the  in- 
signia.    Good.     And  the  musicians? 

The  Servant.     They  are  here. 

La  Belleuse.  Good!  We'll  have  to  re- 
member to  give  them  refreshments  —  and  to 
tell  the  steward.  Never  mind,  I'll  do  it  my- 
self. [The  servant  goes  out]  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  can  do  no  more.  This  affair,  this  ball, 
organised  in  forty-eight  hours  —  I  can  say  it 
without  false  modesty  —  it  is  a  tour  de  force. 
Provided  that  all  goes  well!  And  there 
are  so  many  people!  [Going  to  the  right]  At 
first  this  affair  was  to  be  very  select  —  just  a 
few  colleagues  and  intimate  friends.  But  the 
master  is  so  popular!  All  Paris  wanted  to  be 
invited.  The  favored  ones  are  going  to  have 
a  surprise:  Dr.  Bertry  is  going  to  read  frag- 
ments of  his  next  communication  to  the  Acad- 
emy, on  the  sovereignty  of  science.  [Pointing 
carelessly  to  his  hution]  You  see  I  was  included 
in  the  promotion  —  Dr.  Bertry  surprised  me. 
I  really  do  not  prize  it  much.  But  it  is  for 
my  patients.  It  is  sure  to  have  some  effect 
on  them. 

RiCHON  AND  Jean.     Congratulations! 

La  Belleuse.  Let's  not  speak  of  it.  I 
only  mentioned  it  because  you  were  looking  at 
it.  This  demonstration  for  Dr.  Bertry  is  fine, 
isn't  it? 


208  Brieux 

The  Servant.     [Entering]     Dr.   La  Belleuse? 

La  Belleuse.  I'm  coming.  You  see,  I 
haven't  a  moment  to  myself!     [He  goes] 

RiCHON.  Let  us  go  on  with  the  conversation 
which  that  fool  interrupted.  My  poor  Jean! 
You  were  saying? 

Jean.  Lucienne  followed  her  uncle  here.  I 
intended  remaining  in  fibreville,  but  I  could 
not. 

RicHON.  You  know  Paul  de  Maucour  is 
invited. 

Jean.  What  difference  does  that  make!  He 
is  not  responsible  for  what  happens;  it  is 
simply  our  destiny! 

RiCHON.     And  Dr.  Bertry? 

Jean.  He?  He  bother  about  us!  He  does 
not  understand  the  seriousness  of  what  has 
happened.  He  thinks  it  is  simply  a  lover's 
quarrel.  Besides,  I  did  not  want  to  insist,  for 
fear  of  hearing  him  say:  "I  told  you  so!" 
which  I  guessed  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

Richon.  Haven't  you  tried  to  explain  things 
to  your  wife? 

Jean.  Yes.  But  she  did  not  want  to  listen 
to  me.  I  have  just  seen  her.  She  is  gay, 
very   gay.     Do  you   understand?     She   is   gay! 

Richon.  Her  mother's  hereditary  influence 
has  been  so  impressed  upon  her  mind  that  she 
has   ended   by    believing   it.      She   is   convinced 


The  Escape  209 

that  she  cannot  be  a  virtuous  woman,  and  the 
poor  girl  is  trying  to  imitate  her  friends,  Madame 
de  Cattenieres  and  Alice  Longuyon. 

[Lucienne  is  heard  laughing  outside] 

Jean.  Listen  to  that!  Listen  to  that  laugh- 
ter! 

[Lucienne  and  Mme.  de  Catlenihres  go  across 
the  stage] 

Lucienne.  [In  passing]  And  so  it  was  La 
Belleuse  who  reconciled  them. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     La  Belleuse  himself. 

Lucienne.     That  is  delicious. 
,  Mme.    de   Cattenieres.     My   husband   posi- 
tively wanted  to  give  him  a  gift  to  prove  his 
gratitude. 

[They  laugh  again,  and  go  out] 

Jean.  [Weeping,  rises]  My  poor  Lucienne! 
my  poor  Lucienne!  She  appears  to  me  to  be 
dead. 

RiCHON.  Do  not  weep!  Have  courage! 
This  gayety  cannot  last. 

[Fresh  bursts  of  laughter  are  heard  from  Lu- 
cienne and  Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  La  Belleuse 
enters  with  Morienval.  Jean  walks  to  the  door 
;  through  which  Lucienne  has  passed.  He  remains 
there  a  moment,  following  her  with  his  eyes,  then 
he  goes  out] 

La    Belleuse.     Wonderful,    this    demonstra- 

/ 


210  Brieux 

tion,  wonderful!  You  missed  a  Jot,  my  dear 
friend;    didn't  he,  Morienval? 

MoRiENVAL.     I  should  Say  so. 

La  Belleuse.     Astonishing  —  prodigious. 

Bertry.  [Enters;  to  Richon]  I  am  glad  to 
see  you,  my  dear  doctor.  I  wanted  to  ask 
these  gentlemen  something,  and  I  am  glad  that 
you  too  can  give  me  your  advice.  Listen, 
gentlemen,  all  three  of  you  are  physicians;  now 
answer  me  frankly:  is  it  possible  for  a  shep- 
herd, a  village  quack,  a  charlatan  —  call  him 
what  you  will  —  would  it  be  possible  for  him 
to  cure  patients  whom  physicians  have  given 
up  as  hopeless. 

Morienval.     Never! 

Richon.     Who  knows? 

Bertry.  You  have  not  given  me  your  an- 
swer, La  Belleuse? 

La  Belleuse.     No. 

Bertry.     Because? 

La  Belleuse.  Because  there  is  no  answer  to 
such  a  question.  If  an  imbecile  could  succeed 
where  physicians  do  not,  I  ask  you  what  good 
are  all  our  studies  and  degrees? 

Bertry.     Then  you  think  it  is  possible? 

La  Belleuse.     No. 

Morienval.     No. 

Bertry.     Well,  it  is  possible  just  the  same. 


The  Escape  211 

There  is  in  fibreville  a  shepherd  by  the 
name  of  Guernoche. 

La  Belleuse.  Who  cured  Justin  —  yes,  I 
know  all  about  it. 

Bertry.     Well? 

La  Belleuse.  Dr.  Bertry  explained  it  to 
me:  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  Justin. 

Morienval.  There  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  him. 

Bertry.  And  Brinvillard.  Do  you  know 
Brinvillard? 

La  Belleuse.     Yes. 

Bertry.  Was  there  anything  the  matter 
with  him? 

RiCHON.     Of  course. 

La  Belleuse.  I  know  him.  And  your 
pere  Guernoche  will  not  cure  him,  I  assure  you. 

Bertry.  It  seems  that  he  has  cured  him, 
just  the  same. 

La  Belleuse.  (Bursts  out  laughing]  Oh,  I 
beg  you  —  do  not  get  angry  —  don't  be  ofifended 
—  but  it  is  so  funny.     He  cured  Brinvillard! 

Morienval.  [At  the  same  time]  He  cured 
Brinvillard! 

La  Belleuse.  [Laughs  again,  then  becomes 
serious]  Do  you  know  who  took  care  of  Brin- 
villard? [A  pause]  It  was  Dr.  Bertry,  [Tri- 
umphantly]    Ah ! 

Bertry.     Very    well.     But    Brinvillard    could 


212  Brieux 

not  stand  on  his  feet.  And  yesterday  he  was 
seen  hunting.     What  do  you  say  to  that? 

La  Belleuse.  I  say  —  I  say  that  if  I  saw 
him  myself  I  would  not  believe  it.  You  must 
understand,  my  dear  friend,  that  there  are  laws 
of  nature;  laws,  do  you  understand?  Laws  that 
cannot  be  transgressed! 

MoBiENVAL.  What  would  be  the  use  of  hav- 
ing any  if  they  could  be  transgressed? 

La  Belleuse.  [To  Richon]  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  my  dear  colleague?  Of  course, 
excepting  Monsieur  Bertry,  who  is  perfectly 
sincere;  but  the  others  —  those  patients  who 
have  lost  confidence  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
best  physicians  —  and  who  go  and  put  them- 
selves in  the  hands  of  a  shepherd  —  doesn't  a 
silly  thing  like  that  revolt  you? 

Richon.     No. 

La  Belleuse.     No! 

Richon.  [Kindly]  No.  Just  think  how 
much  those  poor  people  must  suffer  in  order  to 
go  and  beg  a  shepherd  to  give  them  a  few  words 
of  hope!  You  call  it  foolishness?  —  perhaps  — 
but  it  is  done  on  account  of  pain,  weakness, 
misery.  And  besides,  we  must  find  out,  we 
do  not  know  everything,  you  know. 

Bertry.  You,  Richon,  you  admit  that  a 
shepherd  might  have  cured  this  man? 

Richon.     Heavens,  why  not? 


The  Escape  213 

La  Belleuse.  You  say  that!  You  have  no 
faith  then  in  our  profession? 

RiCHON.  I  haven't  much  faith  in  medicine, 
that  is  true,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  haven't  — 
I  could  not  save  my  only  son  from  death  when 
he  was  seventeen,  sir,  and  —  I  swear  — 

[Dr.  Bertry  enters.  He  is  radiant.  He  wears 
the  order  of  the  commander  around  his  neck] 

The  Doctor.  Well,  now  —  what  are  all  of 
you  plotting  there?  You  are  right  to  isolate 
yourselves.  There  is  such  a  crowd  in  the 
salon!  I  say  crowd  —  and  I  am  wrong.  Am 
I  not  wrong?  Tell  me  gentlemen,  haven't  I 
cause  to  be  cotafused?  In  diamonds  —  they 
have  given  me  the  orders  set  in  diamonds!  I 
really  do  not  know  where  the  pessimists  live  who 
deny  fraternity  and  loyalty.  It  is  really  too 
beautiful,  and  my  modest  merits  do  not  —  I  am 
all  confused.  And  you  can  believe  me,  if  you 
will  —  of  course,  my  nomination  gives  me  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure,  I  will  not  try  to  hide 
that;  but  what  has  moved  me  most  of  all  has 
been  the  spontaneous  manifestation  of  sympathy 
with  which  I  have  been  —  have  been  honored. 
Telegrams  are  coming  from  every  corner  of 
France.  How  many  have  we  received  since 
noon.  La  Belleuse? 

La  Belleuse.     Forty-two! 

The    Doctor.    Forty-two!      His    pocket    is 


214  Brieux 

full  of  them  —  isn't  it.  La  Belleuse?  —  Show 
them  to  the  gentlemen  —  just  for  curiosity. 

[La  Belleuse  takes  a  package  of  telegrams  out 
of  his  pocket]  Look  at  these!  [To  La  Belleuse] 
And  what  did  you  say  the  concierge  told  the 
butler  about  the  telegraph  oflfice? 

La  Belleuse.  He  was  wagering  that  they 
would  have  to  engage  extra  help. 

The  Doctor.  Extra  help!  The  good 
people!  [He  gives  La  Belleuse  the  telegrams] 
Here,  you  keep  these!  [He  gradually  becomes 
ill  at  ease  during  the  following]  I  assure  you  that 
this  all  is  very,  very  nice  —  very  nice  —  it  is 
the  reward  of  —  it  is  the  reward  of  forty  years 
of  uninterrupted  study.  I  am  —  I  am  very 
very  happy.  [He  places  his  hand  on  his  heart 
and  breathes  hard]  It  is  homage  —  a  homage  to 
medicine  —  [At  the  end  of  his  strength]  But 
leave  me,  I  beg  you. 

Bertry.     What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

The  Doctor.  [Pulling  himself  together]  With 
me?  Nothing.  What  do  you  think?  There 
is  nothing  the  matter.      I  only  ask  you  — 

RiCHON.     You  are  suffering  — 

La  Belleuse.  You  are  ill,  dear  master  — 

Morienval.     Yes,  you  are  ill  — 

The  Doctor.  [Animated]  111  —  I  ill.  You 
are  mad;  I  ill! 


The  Escape  215 

Bertrt.  Be  calm  —  we  all  see  that  you  are 
ill. 

The  Doctor.  You  make  me  tired!  I  forbid 
you  to  say  that,  do  you  understand  me?  I  ill! 
I  am  less  ill  than  you  are  —  yes,  than  you. 
Only  you  do  not  know  it  —  I  am  in  better 
health  than  you.  La  Belleuse;  you  will  never 
live  to  be  my  age,  I  assure  you  —  I  do  not 
know  what  has  got  into  the  three  of  you.  [Re- 
assuming  his  composed  air  with  a  great  effort, 
and  picking  his  words]  I  was  telling  you  that 
the  manifestation  with  which  I  have  been  hon- 
ored is  a  homage  to  the  whole  medical  world, 
a  homage  to  science.  And  as  the  excitement 
had  tired  me  a  bit  I  asked  you  to  leave  me. 
But  do  not  say  that  I  am  ill  or  suffering.  I 
am  neither  suffering  nor  ill,  do  you  hear? 
There  now.  [With  a  smile]  Leave  me.  La 
Belleuse  —  see  who  is  there. 

La  Belleuse.  Yes,  dear  master.  [To 
Richon,  as  he  goes  out]  Now  /  shall  have  to 
receive   congratulations,   and   it   is   so  tiresome. 

Bertry.     Is  it  over? 

The  Doctor.     Quite. 

Bertry.  Listen.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  You  promise  not  to  get  angry?  You 
know  Brinvillard  — 

The  Doctor.     Yes. 

Bertry.     He  is  cured. 


216  Brieux 

The  Doctor.  [Looking  at  him]  By  pere 
Guernoche? 

Bertry.     Yes. 

The  Doctor.     Well? 

Bertry.  Well.  You  promise  not  to  get 
angry? 

The  Doctor.  I  trust  you  are  not  going  to 
ask  me  to  be  treated  by  your  village  quack. 

Bertry.  Put  yourself  in  my  place.  Some 
one  who  was  suffering  from  the  same  malady 
that  you  were  is  cured.  I  do  not  bother  about 
who  the  healer  was,  whether  he  has  degrees  or 
not.  I  am  telling  you  this  because  I  love  you 
and  I  do  not  want  you  to  suffer.  You  can  at 
least  do  that  for  me,  your  brother. 

The  Doctor,  Once  for  all,  leave  me  alone. 
—  You  are  very  kind,  but  leave  me  alone.  [A 
pause.  Friendly]  Ah,  I  recognize  you  only 
too  well,  you  false  sceptic!  You  are  all  alike. 
You  do  not  believe  in  our  science,  but  you 
believe  in  pere  Guernoche's  secrets!  You  do 
not  dare  to  say  now  that  physicians  are  not 
indispensable  to  humanity.  [Serious]  But  let 
us  not  speak  of  that  any  longer.  Listen  to 
me.  Even  if  I  were  certain  that  your  pere 
Guernoche  could  cure  me  —  you  understand: 
even  if  I  were  certain  —  I  would  refuse  to  see 
him. 

Bertry.     That  is  pure  stubborness. 


The  Escape  217 

The  Doctor.  No,  it  is  dignity,  professional 
dignity. 

[La  Belleuse  enters.  He  is  holding  his  sides 
in  a  jit  of  laughter] 

La  Belleuse.  Mr.  Bertry  —  I  have  a  good 
one.  Some  news  that  I  have  just  heard.  I 
was  looking  for  you  in  order  to  tell  you  about 
it. 

Bertry.     Well,  tell  me. 

La  Belleuse.  I  —  ha,  ha,  ha!  —  Your  Brin- 
villard  —  cured  by  pere  Guernoche.  Oh,  no  — 
ha,  ha,  ha !  —  I  cannot.  Well,  he  is  dea-a-a-a- 
a-d! 

The  Doctor.     Ha,  ha,  ha!  — 

La  Belleuse.  [Still  laughing]  In  coming 
back  from  the  hunt  —  at  his  house.  All  of  a 
sudden  —  psst !  —  and  it  was  all  over.  [He 
laughs  so  that  the  tears  stream  down  his  face] 

The  Doctor.  [To  his  brother]  You  are  not 
laughing? 

Bertry.  You  are  like  two  beasts!  One 
would  think  that  you  were  furious  because  he 
escaped  you. 

The  Doctor.  [Who  has  stopped  laughing] 
Really.  It  is  nothing  to  laugh  about.  [As  if 
to  himself]     He  died  suddenly  — 

La  Belleuse.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Only 
I  came  to  look  for  you  because  a  new  delega- 
tion has  arrived.      I  was  just  informed  — 


218  Brieux 

The  Doctor.     A  new  delegation? 

La  Belleuse.     Yes,  with  a  discourse  — 

[Lucienne,  Mme.  de  Cattenieres,  and  Mme. 
Longuyon  enter  in  the  order  named] 

Lucienne.  Uncle  —  they  are  looking  for  you 
everywhere.     A  delegation  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  My  dear  doctor, 
you  are  hiding  yourself. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  They  are  the  physicians 
from  Dieppe. 

Lucienne.  Do  you  want  to  have  them  come 
in  here? 

The  Doctor.  No,  no.  Come  with  me,  La 
Belleuse. 

[The  ladies  are  left  alone] 

Lucienne.  This  will  be  a  good  place  to  wait 
until  the  end  of  all  the  speeches,  and  we  can 
chat  here  comfortably.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  with 
you  both.  If  you  like,  we  three  can  be  good 
friends. 

Mme.  Longuyon.     Charmed,  I  am  sure. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     And  I  too! 

Lucienne.  [Very  nervous]  What  were  we 
saying?  The  poor  woman  must  have  gone 
through  terrible  anxiety. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Why? 

Lucienne.  Heavens.  It  seems  lo  me  that 
one  ought  not  to  live  so.  The  fear  of  being 
surprised,  the  tales    that  have    to  be  invented. 


The  Escape  219 

the  blunders  of  one's  friends  who  say  they  have 
seen  you  in  such  and  such  a  place,  when  you 
yourself  had  said  that  you  were  somewhere  else. 
It  must  keep  one  on  pins  and  needles  all  the 
time. 

Mme.  Longuyon.     Bah! 

[She  questions  Mme.  de  Cattenieres  vnih  a 
movement  of  her  head] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres,     Pshaw! 

Mme.  Longuyon.     One  gets  used  to  it. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  They  say  so,  at 
least.     [A  pause] 

Mme.  Longuyon.  They  say  so.  You  under- 
stand that  we  know  nothing  about  this  our- 
selves. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Oh,  my  dear,  if  La 
Belleuse  heard  you  now! 

Mme.  Longuyon.  La  Belleuse!  Anyway, 
he  is  really  nothing. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  As  a  physician  — 
but  only  as  a  physician.  [To  Lucienne]  Isn't  it 
so,  dear? 

Lucienne.  Surely.  [To  Mme.  Longuyon] 
But  I  thought  that  you  were  on  such  good 
terms  with  him? 

Mme.  Longuyon.  You  must  not  speak  about 
that!     Such  things  one  does  not  confess. 

Mme.     de  Cattenieres.    That  was  only  to 


220  Brieux 

hide  the  game  he  was  playing.  Husbands  sus- 
pect men  of  whom  their  wives  speak  ill. 

LuciENNE.  [To  Mme.  de  Cattenieres,  forcing 
a  laugh]  Ah,  ah!  And  you  do  not  confess 
either! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Shocked]  What  are 
you  thinking  of?  I  have  a  liaison!  I  am  a 
widow,  my  dear! 

LuciENNE.  And  when  your  husband  was 
alive? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Dreaming]  Ah,  it 
was  nice  then!  [With  a  vague  smile]  Poor 
Raymond! 

Mme.  Longuyon.     He  knew  nothing? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  I  would  never  have 
forgiven  myself  for  an  awkward  move  that  could 
have  disturbed  his  happiness  and  comfort.  I 
esteemed  him  greatly. 

LuciENNE.     And  nevertheless  — 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  My  dear  Lucienne, 
you  will  understand  me  later  on  in  life:  A 
woman  never  does  wrong  until  after  her  hus- 
band knows  about  it. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  Of  course.  As  long  as 
we  know  how  to  hide  things  we  are  harming  no 
one. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [With  lowered  eyes] 
I  might  dare  to  add:  on  the  contrary  —  but 
I   am   talking   seriously.     A   woman's   duty   to- 


The  Escape  221 

ward  her  husband  is  to  make  him  happy.  My 
husband  was  the  luckiest  of  men. 

LuciENNE.     [Laughing]     At  cards,  too? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Quickly]  Well,  no, 
my  dear  —  It  was  unbelievable:  he  lost  all  the 
time. 

LuciENNE.  And  the  first  intrigue  —  no  emo- 
tions, no  remorse? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Yes.  A  great  deal. 
What  made  that  first  adventure  so  delicious. 
[Lost  in  her  thoughts]     I  remember  —  [A  pause] 

LuciENNE.     What,  tell  us. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  Ah,  yes,  tell  us.  You 
remember? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Oh,  it  was  nothing! 
—  a  coincidence,  a  mere  detail  —  insignificant 
to  others  —  but  something  which  I  cannot 
think  of  without  a  sort  of  delicious  sorrow. 
That  first  time  was  on  the  first  anniversary  of 
our    marriage. 

Mme.  Longuyon.     The  delay  was  seasonable. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  I  know  it  very 
well.  But  just  the  same  —  when  I  returned  and 
found  my  husband  with  his  gift  and  a  smile 
upon  his  face  —  I  felt  a  little  something.  He 
was  so  confident!     If  I  had  known  — 

LuciENNE.     You  would  not  have  —  ? 

Mme.  DE  Cattenieres.  [Very  serious]  No! 
I  would  have  waited  a  little  — 


222  Brieux 

LuciENNE.  [With  a  forced  laugh]  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  —  that  is  charming, 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  What  is  the  matter 
with  you? 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  nothing  —  what  else  do  they 
say?     Tell  me  some  other  stories. 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  [Ashamed]  Oh,  Lu- 
cienne ! 

LuciENNE.  About  your  good  friends  —  about 
their  husbands.  Has  Monsieur  de  Benchene  a 
mistress?  And  Paul  de  Maucour?  And  Paul 
de  Maucour? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     No,  not  yet. 

Mme.  Longuyon.  And  he  is  married  a  whole 
year  already! 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  Yes,  I  do  not  under- 
stand it! 

LuciENNE.  Can't  you  tell  me  anything  else? 
Ah,  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Have  you  seen  the 
new  pantomime? 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Yes. 

LuciENNE.     What  is  it  about? 

Mme.  Longuyon.  Celia  will  tell  you  about 
it.  I  should  never  dare.  Au  revoir,  my  dears; 
I  have  this  valse  with  Dr.  La  Belleuse  — 

LuciENNE.     Then  we'll  see  you  later. 

[Mme.  Longuyon  goes  out] 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.  She  would  never 
dare!     She  makes  me  laugh. 


The  Escape  223 

LuciENNE.  Yes,  doesn't  she?  Well,  tell  me 
about  it. 

Mme.  de  Catteniebes.  Oh,  it  cannot  be 
told. 

LuciENNE.     Bah!     We  are  entre  nous. 

Mme.  de  Catteniebes.  Why,  you  see,  they 
had  to  make  a  pantomime  out  of  it.  If  you 
go  to  see  it  take  a  black  lace  fan  with  you. 
One  can  see  perfectly  through  it  and  one  can- 
not be  seen. 

LuciENNE.     It  has  made  a  big  hit,  hasn't  it.-* 

Mme.  DE  Catteniebes.  They  have  had  to 
give  matinees  —  Why,  Madame  Longuyon  took 
her  mother  to  see  it. 

LuciENNE.  What  was  the  matter  with  me 
just  now?  You  did  not  take  it  ill.  I  see 
now  how  ridiculous  I  must  have  been. 

[Bertry  enters] 

Mme.  DE  Catteniebes.  Oh!  —  my  dear! 
Are  you  going  to  dance? 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

Bebtey.  I'd  like  to  have  a  word  with  you, 
Lucienne. 

LuciENNE.  Very  well.  [Softly  to  Mme.  de 
Cattenieres,  whom  she  takes  to  the  door]  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  something  —  [She  hesitates] 
Bah!  why  not?  If  you  should  see  Paul  de 
Maucour  tell  him  to  come  here  after  my  father 
goes.     I  have  something  to  say  to  him. 


224  Brieux 

Mme.  de  Cattenieres.     Very  well,  my  dear. 

[She  goes.     Lucienne  closes  the  door] 

Bertry.  Jean  has  just  told  me  what  has 
happened  between  you  two.  You  are  going  to 
make  up,  aren't  you,  my  dear? 

Lucienne.     [Nervous]     He  sent  you? 

Bertry.  Yes.  He  is  sorry  for  the  words 
that  escaped  him. 

Lucienne.  He  is  giving  both  himself  and 
you  useless  trouble. 

Bertry.     What  do  you  intend  to  do? 

Lucienne.     I  wish  some  one  would  tell  me. 

Bertry.  You  make  every  one  around  you  un- 
happy, Lucienne. 

Lucienne.  Whom  do  I  make  unhappy?  My 
husband?  I  warned  him  before  our  marriage. 
He  knew  what  chances  he  was  taking  when  he 
married  me:  he  wanted  to  play  the  game  just 
the  same,  and  he  lost  it.  All  the  worse.  I 
suffer  as  much  from  it  as  he  does.  Is  it  my 
uncle?  He  would  laugh  at  anything  that  hap- 
pens, and  he  is  overjoyed  at  his  nomination. 
Is  it  you?     That  is  possible,  but  it  is  justice. 

Bertry.     Because? 

Lucienne.  Because  all  that  has  passed  is 
your  work. 

Bertry.     Please  explain  what  you  mean. 

Lucienne.     I  cannot.     You  must  understand. 

Bertry.     I  beg  you  to  explain. 


The  Escape  225 

LuciENNE.  I  should  not  know  how  without 
seeming  to  be  disrespectful. 

Bertry.  Have  I  not  always  been  good  to 
you? 

LuciENNE.     Too  good. 

Bertry.     And  you  reproach  me  for  that? 

LuciENNE.     Yes. 

Bertry.  I  again  repeat  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand you. 

LuciENNE.  You  realize,  don't  you,  that  I 
deserve  some  pity?  My  union  with  Jean  is 
broken,  my  happiness  is  lost.  What  is  to  be- 
come of  me  now?  No,  let  me  speak!  Ordi- 
nary, happy  life  in  mediocrity,  the  happiness  of 
the  fireplace,  the  beloved  husband,  the  babe  that 
one  rocks  —  I  am  not  made  for  all  that.  Every  one 
has  told  me  so,  and  even  Jean  ended  by  saying 
it.  I  reproach  you  for  having  given  me  an 
education  that  made  my  destiny  so  repulsive 
to  me.  If  you  had  left  me  where  I  was  born  I 
should  not  have  suffered. 

Bertry.     So  that  is  my  crime? 

LuciENNE.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  suffer, 
and  it  is  directly  due  to  you.  Without  this  ed- 
ucation I  should  be  like  so  many  others,  un- 
conscious and  happy, 

Bertry.     Happy  in  misery! 

LuciENNE.  There  cannot  be  misery  where  there 
is  no  responsibiUty. 


226  Brieux 

Bertry.     My  daughter! 

LuciENNE.  Alas!  yes!  your  daughter!  You 
wanted  to  bring  me  up  to  your  level!  You 
should  have  paid  no  attention  to  me;  then  I 
should  not  have  been  Monsieur  Bertry's  daughter, 
but  simply  the  daughter  of  Sophie  Claret.  Why 
did  you  acknowledge  me? 

Bertry.  [Without  raising  his  voice]  Lucienne! 
Why  did  I  acknowledge  you!  I'll  tell  you,  my 
child.  I  loved  your  mother,  who  was  my  com- 
panion for  four  years,  very  dearly.  If  I  was 
wrong  the  only  excuse  I  can  give  is  my  youth 
and  my  need  for  affection.  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  you  about  your  mother's  life  before  I  met 
her;  sad  to  say,  you  know  about  it.  When 
you  were  born  I  felt  myself  bound  to  her  by 
even  closer  ties,  I  felt  that  a  new  duty  was  im- 
posed upon  me:  to  watch  over  you,  and  to 
make  your  life  as  sweet  as  possible  in  order,  if 
possible,  to  atone  for  the  illegitimacy  of  your 
birth.  Then  your  mother  fell  sick.  You  will 
never  know  how  deeply  she  loved  you.  You 
will  never  know  how  many  tears  she  shed  on 
your  account. 

Lucienne.  [A  little  softened]  Why  did  she 
weep  on  my  account? 

Bertry.  Because  she  loved  you,  and  be- 
cause your  future  worried  her.  Her  fondest 
dream  was  to  sacrifice  everything  to  you.     Then 


The  Escape  227 

she  reproached  herself  for  having  given  you  her 
name  in  the  first  transports  of  maternal  love, 
and  she  often  wept  about  it.  [Gradually 
Bertry's  voice  changes]  When  she  felt  the  end 
coming,  she  called  me  to  her  side  and  said: 
"It  is  best  for  me  to  die,  for  I  should  have 
spoiled  her  later  on,  anyway." 

LuciENNE.     [Moved]     She  said  that? 

Bebtry.  I'll  show  you  a  letter  that  she 
wrote  me  about  it.  It  was  she  who  entreated 
me  to  acknowledge  you.  And  I  did  it,  Lucienne, 
for  her  sake  and  for  yours.  [He  is  choked  vnth 
emotion]  The  sheet  of  paper  on  which  you  were 
acknowledged  as  my  daughter  I  took  to  her  on 
what  was  to  be  her  last  day.  She  still  had 
enough  strength  to  read  and  her  face,  ravaged 
by  pain  and  sufifering,  became  calm  and  beau- 
tiful once  more,  and  was  lighted  up  with  joy; 
two  tears  fell  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  onto 
the  pillow;  and  she  thanked  me!  She  thanked 
me,  Lucienne,  and  then  she  passed  away. 
You  see  how  she  loved  you. 

Lucienne.  [Softly,  her  hands  clasped]  Mother! 
[She  weeps  silently] 

Bertry.  [Without  looking  up  to  heaven]  Oh, 
my  darling!  If  she  only  could  hear  you!  [A 
pause]  Tell  me  in  what  other  way  you  think 
I  was  wrong. 

Lucienne.     I  ask  your  forgiveness. 


228  Brieux 

Bertry.  If  you  want  me  to  forgive  you  ab- 
solutely you  will  make  up  with  Jean. 

LuciENNE.  That  is  not  possible.  Jean  said 
so  himself.  There  are  certain  powers  against 
which  one  cannot  struggle. 

Bertry.  But  I  know  you  so  well,  I  know 
what  you  really  are;  you  can  triumph  over  your- 
self, Lucienne. 

LuciENNE.  No.  I  have  read  too  many  of 
Dr.  Bertry's  books  and  I  have  listened  to  him  too 
often  not  to  know  what  to  expect.  I  am  a 
scholar,  you  see!  And  besides.  I  truly  be- 
lieve that  I  never  loved  any  one  but  Paul  de 
Maucour.  It  was  he  whom  I  should  have 
married. 

Bertry.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Lucienne.     I  don't  know. 

Bertry.  What  answer  can  I  give  Jean? 
Can  I  tell  him  that  there  is  any  hope? 

Lucienne.     If  you  want  to. 

Bertry.     But  you  love  me,  don't  you? 

[Lucienne  embraces  him.  He  goes  out  —  Lu- 
cienne is  alone  for  a  moment;  then  Paul  enters] 

Lucienne.  Here  he  is!  This  is  the  deciding 
point  of  my  life. 

Paul.  Well,  you  did  not  come  this  after- 
noon.    Didn't  you  receive  my  letter? 

Lucienne.     Yes. 

Paul.     Well? 


The  Escape  229 

LuciENNE.  Did  you  really  think  that  I 
would  come? 

Paul.  Yes,  because  I  believe  that  you 
love  me. 

LuciENNE.     You  do? 

Paul.     Well,  don't  you? 

LuciENNE.  [Softly]  Yes.  [Raising  her  voice] 
Then  it  is  understood  that  we  love  each  other. 
Now  speak.     [She  sits  down] 

Paul.  Ah,  how  sweet  it  sounds  to  have  you 
say  that  at  last!  You  see,  it  was  decreed  that 
you  and  I  were  made  for  each  other,  and  noth- 
ing in  the  world  could  overcome  that.  Lucienne, 
you  are  the  dearest,  most  enchanting  creature! 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  our  union  will  not  be 
blessed,  this  secret  marriage,  which  we  will 
freely  contract,  will  be  firmer  and  more  de- 
licious than  any  other. 

[He  tries  to  grasp  her  hand] 

LuciENNE.     [Drawing  her  hand  away]     No. 

Paul.     Why  not? 

LuciENNE.  And  this  dream  —  how  are  you 
going  to  realize  it? 

Paul.  What  I  should  like  to  do,  my  darling, 
would  be  to  carry  you  far  away  in  my  arms, 
far  from  all  who  know  us,  into  a  distant,  un- 
known land,  where  I  could  give  you  my  whole 
life  in  exchange  for  yours. 

LuciENNE.     You  would  do  that? 


230  Brieux 

Paul.     I  wish  with  all  my  soul  that  I  could. 

LuciENNE.     What  keeps  you  from  doing  it? 

Paul.  Just  think,  my  dear,  of  the  sorrow 
that  we  should  leave  in  our  wake.  I  am  not 
talking  of  my  relatives  only,  but  of  yours,  of 
Alice,  of  your  husband;  I  ask  myself  whether 
we  have  the  right  to  create  a  happiness  for  our- 
selves built  on  the  sorrows  of  so  many  people 
who  have  never  caused  us  any  unhappiness,  and 
whom  our  flight  would  cause  the  most  acute 
anguish. 

LuciENNE.     Then? 

Paul.     Don't  you  think  I  am  right? 

LuciENNE.     Yes,  yes. 

Paul.  Oh,  it  is  costing  me  enough!  to  re- 
nounce this  perfect  happiness,  this  absolute 
abandon  —  alas,  impossible! 

LuciENNE.     Imp  ossible ! 

Paul.  I  have  thought  of  other  things.  This 
is  what  I  have  planned. 

LuciENNE.     Ah,  let  me  hear! 

Paul.  We  will  get  a  little  place  in  some 
quiet  part  of  Paris,  a  little  nest  lost  among  the 
foliage  and  the  flowers.  That  will  be  our 
home.  We  will  meet  there  as  often  as  we 
can.  And  this  wonderful  mystery  of  ours  will 
be  one  of  the  sources  of  our  joy.  We  alone 
shall  know  that  we  love  each  other.     [Lucienne 


The  Escape  231 

rises]  Won't  we  be  supremely  happy,  Lu- 
cienne? 

LuciENNE.  Perhaps.  Have  you  thought  of 
the  constant  lies  that  we  shall  have  to  tell? 

Paul.  [Standing]  Of  course,  and  I  regret 
it  as  much  as  you  do. 

LuciENNE.  But  it  will  be  nothing;  probably 
everything  will  go  well. 

Paul.     Why  yes. 

LuciENNE.  In  order  to  meet  we  shall  have 
to  write.  And  isn't  that  rather  dangerous? 
Our  absences  will  be  noticed;  we  shall  be  fol- 
lowed. 

Paul.  Of  course  as  things  stand  with  Jean 
now  our  situation  is  more  precarious  than  it 
would  be  ordinarily. 

LuciENNE.     What  do  you  mean? 

Paul.  If  he  were  not  suspicious  of  me  now; 
if  — 

LuciENNE.       If? 

Paul.  If  only  you  were  on  apparently  good 
terms  with  him.  We  should  have  a  hundred 
opportunities  to  meet. 

LuciENNE.  But  the  situation  is  not  like  that 
now. 

Paul.     There  would  be  a  way  —  only  — 

LuciENNE.  Oh,  come  now,  my  friend.  What 
is  keeping  you  back? 


232  Brieux 

Paul.  I  tell  you  in  advance  it  will  cost  me 
a  lot  —  a  lot  —  but  — 

LuciENNE.     But   love   excuses   everything. 

Paul.  [Approaching  her]  Yes,  doesn't  it? 
Well,  this  is  what  I  thought.  If  we  could 
both  make  up  with  Jean  we  should  at  least  be 
in  a  normal  situation. 

LuciENNE.     "Normal  situation"  is  charming. 

Paul.  [Flattered]  You  are  too  good.  But 
doesn't  that  plan  suit  you? 

LuciENNE.  I  must  confess  that  at  first  I 
was  a  bit  shocked. 

Paul.  Very  well,  I  will  think  about  it,  I 
will  find  something  else.  The  main  thing  now 
is  that  we  are  sure  of  our  love  for  each  other. 
For  you  love  me,  don't  you? 

LuciENNE.  Can  you  doubt  it  after  what  we 
have  just  said  to  one  another? 

Paul.  Let  me  look  into  your  eyes  —  [She 
rises,  and  he  holds  her]  You  have  never  been  so 
beautiful.  [Very  softly,  and  putting  his  arm 
around  her  waist]  You  will  be  the  most  ador- 
able mistress.  [Lucienne  looks  at  him  for  a 
long  time] 

LuciENNE.  Coward!  You  are  a  coward,  I 
say!  In  the  end,  all  of  this  hurts  me,  revolts 
me,  and  I  cannot  contain  myself  any  longer. 
[Becoming  very  excited]  Ah,  what  things,  what 
ignoble   things   you   have   dared   to  propose   to 


The  Escape  233 

me!  I  am  to  become  reconciled  with  Jean,  you 
will  be  reconciled  with  him,  your  friend,  and 
steal  his  wife  away  from  him.  That  was 
what  you  desired!  Adultery  may  perhaps  be 
excused  when  it  binds  two  people  until  death, 
but  you  do  not  desire  that  kind.  What  you 
desired  was  banal  intrigue,  with  all  of  its  lies 
and  hypocrisies.  But  you  will  have  to  search 
for  that  elsewhere.  In  vain  I  have  striven 
with  all  of  my  strength,  but  I  cannot  —  I  can- 
not play  that  role !  I  have  tried  —  yes. 
On  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  went  to  your  ren- 
dez-vous  —  I  arrived  in  front  of  the  house  in 
which  you  were  waiting  for  me,  and  all  of  a 
sudden  I  had  a  clear  and  complete  vision  of  the 
abjection  into  which  I  was  about  to  throw  my- 
self. I  got  into  the  carriage  that  had  brought 
me,  I  came  back  here,  and,  thank  God,  if  I  was 
aware  of  the  degradation  of  lying  before  my  de- 
parture, I  am  at  least  ignorant  of  the  shame  of 
the  return. 

Paul.    Then  you  do  not  love  me? 

LuciENNE.  It  is  evident  that  I  do  not, 
since  you  have  made  my  whole  being  revolt  as 
from  a  sort  of  contamination. 

Paul.  And  you  do  not  believe  in  my  love 
for  you? 

LuciENNE.  Your  love!  It  disgusts  me!  It 
disgusts  me!     Your  love  produces  nothing  but 


234  Brieux  , 

lies,  cowardliness,  filth!  I  recognize  that  kind 
of  love:  it  is  the  sort  of  homage  which  others 
have  insulted  me  with  for  a  long  time  now. 
I  have  seen  it  often,  too  often,  thanks  to  the 
promiscuity  of  the  balls,  shining  in  men's  eyes, 
and  it  is  the  same  I  have  just  seen  glittering  in 
your  eyes. 

Paul.     [Animated,  going  towards  her]     Lucienne! 

LuciENNE.  Yes,  it  is  the  same,  for  you  are 
like  all  the  others;  it  is  always  the  same  con- 
tracted mouth,  the  same  trembling  hands,  the 
same  gentle  hypocrisy,  the  same  bestial  and  in- 
sulting desires!  Ah,  if  every  woman,  if  every 
young  giri  even,  would  dare  to  tell  of  the  ig- 
nominies to  which  men  have  attempted  to  sub- 
ject her,  if  she  would  dare  to  repeat  the  in- 
expressible propositions  made  to  her  by  young 
men,  old  men,  men  who  are  reputed  to  be 
virtuous  and  faithful!  And  all  of  this  is  done 
within  two  feet  of  the  husband  or  father,  whose 
hands  they  are  going  to  shake  when  they  leave, 
after  their  plans  have  been  checked!  Ah,  what 
cowards  you  all  are!  And  what  audacity  you 
need  to  dare  to  exalt  this  love  which  you  have 
so  debased!     Now  go,  will  you?     Go! 

Paul  [Approaching  her]  No.  [A  pause]  If 
your  friends,  Madame  de  Cattenieres  and 
Madame  Longuyon  were  to  hear  you  they 
would    never    recognize    their    recent    laughing 


The  Escape  235 

companion  —  Lucienne.       [He  steps    up  to  her] 

LuciENNE.     Leave  me! 

Paul.     No! 

Lucienne.  [Cries  out,  as  she  is  being  followed 
around  the  room  by  Paul]     Jean! 

Paul.  [Trying  to  put  his  hand  on  her 
mouth;  very  gravely]     I  love  you. 

Lucienne.     Jean! 

Paul.  You  have  played  with  me,  that's 
enough. 

Lucienne.     Jean! 

[Jean  appears.  Lucienne  utters  a  cry  of  tri- 
umph and  throws  herself  into  his  arms] 

Jean.     Lucienne ! 

Lucienne.  Protect  me,  Jean,  protect  me! 
[A  pause] 

Paul.     I  am  at  your  service,  sir. 

[Jean  holds  Lucienne  in  his  arms.  He  hides 
his  great  inner  joy.  He  replies  to  Paul  in  a 
scornfully    smiling    manner.     Softly] 

Jean.  Go  —  that  is  all  —  I  do  not  hate 
you.  My  wife  told  you  to  go  —  so  go  —  that 
is  all  I  ask  of  you.     Go! 

Paul.     But  — 

Jean.     Go! 

[Paul  goes  ovi] 

Jean.  [Still  holding  Lu,cienne  in  his  arms] 
My  dear  Lucienne. 

Lucienne.     [To  herself,  after  drawing  a  little 


236  Brieux 

away]  Ah!  —  am  I  a  good  woman  just  the 
same? 

Jean.  Lucienne!  My  wife!  Do  you  love 
me? 

Lucienne.  I  do  not  doubt  myself  any 
longer.  But  what  they  said,  Jean.  And 
their  science? 

[Voices  are  heard  in  front  of  the  door] 

Jean.     Science.     But  what  is  the  matter? 

Lucienne.     Yes,  what  is  it? 

[The  door  opens] 

Bertry.  [Still  outside]  This  way.  Lift  the 
tapestry.     Hurry ! 

[Bertry  and  a  servant  enter  supporting  the 
doctor  between  them.  The  doctor  is  very  pale 
and  can  hardly  walk] 

Lucienne.     Uncle! 

Bertry.  [  To  Jean]  The  armchair  —  that's 
it.  [To  the  servant]  Lower  the  portieres,  and 
then  you  may  go. 

The  Doctor.  [To  the  servant  as  he  is  going 
out]     Wait.      Say  —  say  that  it  is  nothing. 

[The  servant  leaves] 

Lucienne.     Send  for  some  help. 

The  Doctor.  No,  no!  And  above  all,  let 
no  one  hear  of  this!  All  I  need  is  a  bit  of 
fresh  air! 

[He  opens  his  vest.  Braces  are  visible.  Lu- 
cienne, at  his  right,  tries  to  undo  his  necktie,  but 


The  Escape  237 

she  does  not  do  it  quickly  enough;  the  doctor  takes 
his  collar  with  his  left  hand  and  tears  it  off.  To 
his  brother]     Tell  me  —  did  any  one  see  me? 

Bertry.     No. 

The  Doctor.     How  did  it  happen? 

Bertry.  You  left  the  salon.  You  were 
alone  with  me.  Suddenly,  you  turned  fright- 
fully pale  — ■  and  held  on  to  me  to  keep  from 
falling.  Then  you  said:  "Like  the  other  one 
—  suddenly  —  like  the  other  one,  Andre!" 
You  almost  lost  consciousness.  I  called  a 
servant  —  we  brought  you  here.  And  that  is 
the  whole  story. 

LuciENNE.     What  can  be  done? 

The  Doctor.  What  is  there  to  be  done? 
If  I  only  knew,  my  dear  child!  [Softly,  almost 
mith  shame]  But  I  know  nothing!  All  I  can 
do  is  to  wait  for  the  next  crisis,  tomorrow,  in  a 
week  —  and  so  it  will  go  on  —  until  it  carries 
me  off  some  day.  I  have  been  suffering  like 
this  for  years  now,  do  you  understand,  for 
years ! 

LuciENNE.     Years? 

The  Doctor.  Yes,  I  hid  it  from  everybody. 
I  was  ashamed  of  my  pains  which  I  could  not 
relieve  —  I  hid  them  —  on  account  of  the  pride, 
you  know,  the  pride  of  the  scientist.  Now  you  see 
my  misery  —  you  see  nothing  but  a  poor  human 
rag  before  you  —  like  the   others,   like  all   the 


238  Brieux 

others,  in  that  frightful  distress  at  feeling  one's 
life  blood  ebbing.  Still  I  can  try  something  just 
the  same. 

Perhaps  others  know  —  Richon  —  call  Richon! 
Beg  him  to  prepare  something  for  me,  to  find  — 
to  invent.  No!  No!  [To  himself]  Find,  in- 
vent. Now  I  am  as  foolish  as  my  patients! 
[Grandly]  If  I  believed  in  God  I  would  get  on 
my  knees  and  pray  to  Him  for  a  miracle.  [He 
weeps.  After  a  pause]  But  I  do  not  believe 
in  Him!  I  do  not  even  believe  in  science  — 
and  I  have  not  believed  in  it  for  a  long  time 
now. 

Jean.  [To  Lucienne]  You  hear,  Lucienne, 
you  hear! 

The  Doctor.  [Beating  the  arms  of  his  arm- 
chair] Science !  science !  science !  —  ah,  ah !  — ■ 
One  imagines  a  million  things  are  the  matter!  — 
one  wants  to  formulate  laws  of  life  —  and  is 
present,  powerless,  at  one's  own  agony!  We 
understand  nothing  that  happens  about  us,  we 
understand  nothing  that  is  happening  within 
us.  Why  am  I  going  to  die?  My  arteries 
will  begin  to  harden.  Why?  How?  What  is 
hardening  of  the  arteries?  Do  you  want  me  to 
tell  you?  We  know  nothing  about  it,  nothing, 
nothing,  nothing !  —  we  have  found  nothing  but 
words!  [A  pause.  The  Doctor  rises]  I'm 
better  again.     I'm  quite  relieved. 


The  Escape  239 

Bertry.  [After  a  pause]  Look  at  these  chil- 
dren. You  failed  to  make  them  unhappy.  Tell 
them  that  your  statements  were  made  at  a 
venture;  tell  them  that  we  all  have  energy  in 
us  to  fight  against  hereditary  blemishes,  and 
that  no  one  is  born  who  is  condemned  in  ad- 
vance to  utter  despair. 

LuciENNE.  [Supplicating,  vnth  great  emotion] 
Yes!  Yes!  say  that  your  distressing  theories 
are  vain;  say  it  so  that  I  shall  feel  myself 
delivered  from  the  heavy  fatality  that  seems  to 
hang  over  me;  so  that  I  can  feel  free;  say  it, 
say  it!  so  that  I  shall  know  that  we  are  not 
dominated  by  the  tyranny  of  the  dead! 

Jean.  Do  not  repeat  your  despairing  max- 
ims! I  beg  of  you  not  to!  I  entreat  you  in  the 
name  of  all  the  unfortunates  upon  whom  weighs 
the  restlessness  of  a  doubtful  heredity,  and  who, 
more  than  the  others,  have  need  of  confidence 
and  courage. 

The  Doctor.  [After  a  long  pause]  I  have 
nothing  to  add  to  what  you  have  just  heard. 
My  —  pride  failed  to  make  you  lose.  I  ask 
your  forgiveness. 

Jean.  [To  Lucienne]  We  are  free  at  last! 
Do  you  believe  me?  I  love  you!  Do  you  be- 
lieve me? 

Lucienne.  I  love  you  and  I  believe  you! 
I  love  you  and  I  believe  you!     [They  embrace] 


240  Brieux 

La  Belleuse.  [Appearing  in  the  doorway] 
Dear  master,  —  they  are  all  waiting  for  you  to 
begin  your  lecture. 

[The  doctor  stands  erect.  He  again  takes  on 
the  air  of  the  first  act.  A  long  pause,  then 
pointing  to  his  order  of  the  commander] 

The  Doctor.  I'll  put  that  on  again  —  and 
I'll  come  at  once.  What  was  I  going  to  say 
to  them?  [As  he  goes  he  prepares  the  beginning 
of  his  speech]  Gentlemen  and  colleagues,  the 
sovereignty  of  science. 

CURTAIN. 


406B6     8-2S    2M 


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